Damsel in Distress? Not Likely!
by Leia
Summary: [In Progress] Bulma and Trunks are abducted by the Neo Red Ribbon Army, with the intent to force Bulma to invent bioweapons. Vegeta and Yamucha go looking for them. But will Bulma sit around and wait to be rescued? ::snort:: What do YOU think?
1. Dinner, Shopping, Murder, and Abduction

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. I asked Santa for the rights to them, but I guess even Jolly ol' St. Nick is afraid of a lawsuit from TOEI, FUNimation, and the rest! 

A/N: Ah, yes. This fic is more than a Bulma-gets-kidnapped-Vegeta-rescues-Bulma story, I promise you that. If I can pull it off, this will be a tale of action, romance, cunning (on Bulma's part, anyway...^^), and deception. Intrigued? Stick around and see. 

All preamble aside, on with the show!   
  


Damsel in Distress?  Not Likely!

**Chapter One: In the Dark of the Night**

A tiny fist met a larger one in a clumsy attempt to block a punch, then struck forward in a blow of its own.  The child frowned, lavender eyebrows knitting together in frustration as he tried again and again to land a hit on his opponent, who also happened to be his father.  He knew it was useless, but the desire to try burned deeply within him, causing the boy to continue to throw random punches despite the fact that each blow missed its mark.

The father lashed out his fist, but this time he miscalculated.  Instead of his hand merely grazing the child's face, the blow was met head-on, and the six-year-old flew backwards into the far wall.  Tears leaked from his bright blue eyes, then he bit his lip and swiped his eyes clear.  "I'm s-sorry, Papa, I should've blocked it."

"Buck up, brat, you did fine," Vegeta growled, pretending he wasn't affected when his son scrambled to his feet, beaming happily.  

The next minute, Vegeta's shoulders hunched as a voice came from the kitchen.  "Vegeta!  If you're beating up our son again, you'll be sorry!"

Little Trunks giggled.  "I guess we were too loud, Papa," he grinned, and he wiped the blood dribbling from his nose with his sleeve.

One corner of Vegeta's mouth quirked upwards in the slightest possible indication of a smile.  "Guess so," he raised his voice.  "The kid is fine, woman!"

Footsteps were heard stomping dangerously toward the livingroom.  "Vegeta . . ." Bulma's voice came closer and closer, sounding annoyed.  "Trunks . . ."

Trunks squealed and hid behind his father's leg, until Vegeta pushed him away.  "Hey, brat, you're going to make her suspicious!"

Bulma came into the room then, hands on her hips.  "You two are impossible!  Trunks, I already told you, you're not allowed to train with Daddy unless you're in the Gravitron or outside.  As for _you_, Vegeta," she raised an eyebrow.  "I told you the same thing.  What am I going to do with you boys?"

"Sorry, Mama," Trunks laughed, and he ran to her, jumping up to be caught in her arms.  "But it's fun."

"Bleeding is fun?" Bulma challenged, smiling at him.  "Look at you, you little goof ball!" she cleaned his nose, an affectionate look crossing her face.  "I think I'm going to lock you in your room when Daddy's inside, kiddo," Bulma tickled his stomach before setting him back down.  "O, well.  If you two grunts are finished trying to kill each other, your dinner is ready."

She turned and left, but before the other two followed, Vegeta punched Trunks and sent him sprawling.  The boy chuckled and trotted after his parents.

Bulma watched, amused, as the Saiyajin and demi-Saiyajin tackled the mound of food set in front of them.  Her parents didn't even pay attention anymore.  "Slow down before you choke," Bulma sighed, though it was more of a reflex response than anything.  Vegeta completely ignored the remark, and Trunks just raised an eyebrow and kept eating.  He sat on a stack of computer textbooks so he could keep his head above the table.

Ten minutes into the meal, Vegeta looked up.  "We need more food.  I'll have finished this in five minutes."

"We _need_ to go shopping," Bulma pushed a strand of turquoise hair behind one ear.  "Thanks to your bottomless stomach, we're all out of food again.  I was going to ask if you could go to the grocery store after dinner."

  


"I'm busy."

"You aren't," Bulma countered.  "You would just go to the trainer for a few hours, then come back in and watch television for twenty minutes or so before going upstairs and crashing on the bed.  Don't give me 'busy'."

Bulma's father almost choked on his food as he struggled not to laugh.  "Bulma, lay off a little.  The poor man!"

"'Poor man'?" Vegeta repeated, looking shocked and insulted, and everyone at the table suddenly became interested in their napkins, forks, or plates — anything that kept them from glancing at the irate Saiyajin and bursting into peals of laughter.  "Don't be stupid, Briefs.  Fine, I'll go to the store.  Is the brat coming?"

"Grocery shopping?" Trunks spit into his napkin.  "Papa, are you kidding?"

Bulma grinned.  "No, you have to go to bed.  Daddy can handle shopping all by himself.  He's a grown man."

Vegeta's lip curled, and he finished his supper.  "Give me a credit card," he commanded.  Bulma fished in her pocket and handed Vegeta a handful of zenni vouchers.

"This should tide you over," she stood up from the table and followed him to the door.  "Here's some capsules to carry the groceries in."

Vegeta grunted as he accepted the small devices and stowed them in his pocket.  "I won't be long.  Think you can take care of the house until I'm back, weakling?"

Bulma smacked his arm.  "Don't overinflate your ego, mister.  The house will still be standing, I'm sure.  Go on, get outta' here."

He snorted, but he grinned as he flew away.

  


Bulma watched him go, shaking her head slowly and smiling.  "I don't know why I let him stay here," she sighed, knowing she didn't mean it.  "That man is such an idiot."

"Mama, do I have to go to bed?" Trunks asked when she came back to the table.

"When you're done supper, yes, you do," Bulma ruffled his hair as she sat down, ignoring the face he made from the action.  "Until you're old enough to stay up all night without falling asleep, you will have a bedtime.  Sorry, Trunks."

Trunks blew her a raspberry, then winced when his mother shot him a glare.  "I can stay up all night.  I'm not a baby."

Bulma's mother raised an eyebrow.  "I remember the last time you said that, sweetie.  You were asleep by eight o'clock."

"Goten was over that time," Trunks protested, "We'd been playing all day.  That was different!"

Bulma looked at him, studying his proud face.  The boy's stubborn expression was identical to one of his father's, and the comparison drew a small smile from Bulma.  "You know what?  I have to work on a program, so I won't be going to bed tonight.  If you can stay up with me, Trunks, then we'll negotiate a later bedtime.  How's that?"

Trunks grinned, and he bounced up and down on his chair.  "Okay!  Thanks, Mama!"

"Sure thing, kid," Bulma punched him lightly on the cheek.  "Maybe you can help me with the program.  You're going to grow up to take over the Capsule Corp. business someday, you know."

The little boy made a face, but he shrugged.  "Sure.  I can try."

******

An hour later, Bulma bent over the keyboard, leaning close to the computer with her nose almost pressed to the screen. A housecoat was thrown over her pajamas, and a cup of coffee sat beside her on the desk, now ice-cold.  "I'm going to need glasses at this rate," she muttered, tapping at the keys viciously.  She was working on the design for a new security robot, and though things were going well, it was still a time-consuming process.

Bulma grimaced, and she pushed her chair away from the lab table, hearing the wheels squeak as the chair rolled backwards.  She stretched her hands up to the ceiling, feeling her cramped muscles complaining from the movement.  She looked down at the floor and smiled, seeing that Trunks lay curled up on the floor, fast asleep.  She'd known perfectly well he wouldn't last long, since he'd been at Goten's house almost all day.

"Vegeta should be back in about half an hour," Bulma murmured, glancing at her watch.  AI'll put Trunks to bed before he gets back."

  


Lifting her son into her arms, Bulma carried him upstairs to his room.  "You're a good boy," she whispered, kissing him on the forehead.  In her bare feet and house robe, Bulma padded down the carpeted hallway to Trunks' bedroom.  It was sparsely furnished, with only a bed and dresser, but toys were strewn everywhere.  Bulma changed Trunks into his pajamas, and he mumbled in his sleep.  

"No.. Goten.. don't eat .. my food," he muttered, then subsided.  His mother smiled as she tucked him into bed, softly brushing his lavender hair out of his eyes.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Bulma turned to leave the room, suppressing a groan as she thought of the long night that awaited her.

She wasn't halfway to the door before all the lights went out.  It wasn't a flicker like a power outage during a thunderstorm; every electronic device in the house — be it lights, computers, robots, or security systems — shut down with a bang.  Even the backup generators were dead.  Bulma emitted a small shriek, and she stumbled back to Trunks' bed, stepping on toys and cursing quietly to herself as the sharp edge of something cut her foot.

Bulma fumbled in her pocket, where she always kept an emergency supply of capsules, no matter what she was wearing or what the occasion was, until her trembling fingers found a flashlight.  The bright, white beam lanced out from the small device, and Bulma played the light around the room trying to find the cause of the sudden power failure.

"Mama?" Trunks' voice came from the bed, quivering from sleepiness and just a touch of fright.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Bulma kicked a few toy tanks and warrior action figures out of the way, and she picked Trunks up.  "But something's the matter.  I don't know what."

Trunks tensed in her arms, and Bulma held on tighter.  "What?  Can I fight it?"

"You aren't old enough to fight!" Bulma snapped.  "A few clandestine sparring matches with your father does not make you qualified to battle anyone!  Just relax — we don't even know if there's somebody —"

She never got to finish the question, for the next thing she knew a blinding light was glaring at her with the intensity of a Taiyouken, and someone had wrenched Trunks from her arms.  Bulma heard someone scream, and it took her an agonized second to realize that she was the one making the hysterical noise.  Strong arms pinioned her elbows to her sides, and a hand grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head backwards and causing her to cry out in pain.

"Briefs Bulma?" a gruff voice demanded, shaking Bulma's head roughly.

  


"Y-yes," Bulma stammered, squinting against the light and trying to see where Trunks was.  "What's going on?" finally her eyes adjusted to the glare, and Bulma could see a group of soldiers — both men and women — dressed in black combat suits, holding an array of weaponry that was both frightening and illegal.  All of the guns were pointed at her.  In the background, Bulma could see a man struggling to hold Trunks, who was kicking and punching and even trying to bite.

"Mama!" Trunks cried, "They're too strong!"

The soldier restraining him shouted, "Shut up, brat!" and clubbed Trunks on the back of the neck with the rifle he carried.  The small boy's eyes bulged, then his body went limp.

Bulma screamed and fought to free herself from her captor, but he was too strong.  "Don't hurt my son!" she yelled, but to no avail.  The target of her anger merely hefted Trunks' unconscious form over one shoulder and raised the barrel of his weapon to point at her.  "What's happening?" Bulma repeated.  "I demand to know what's going on!"

A man stepped forward, standing in front of one of the flashlights so that Bulma couldn't see any details of his face.  It wouldn't have made a difference anyway, since all Bulma's attackers were wearing masks.  "You're in no position to make demands right now.  In fact, I think it's in your best interest just to shut up.  Come."

The soldier holding her shoved Bulma forward, and though she stumbled she had no choice but to obey.  "Where am I going?" she demanded, trying to sound strong and in command, but she was appalled to hear the tremor in her voice.

"Shut up."

A spark of hope flared up in Bulma's heavy heart.  Vegeta was due back soon — if only he would hurry!  These soldiers, despite all their guns and bullet-resistant clothing, would be no match for a Saiyajin.  If only she could stall them!

"Can't I at least get dressed?" Bulma pleaded, trying to think of some way — _any _way — to remain in the house a little longer.  "I mean, I'm in my pajamas!"

"Shut up and get moving."

"At least let me carry my son," Bulma took a step forward, straining against the guard's iron grip on her upper arms.  "You'll hurt him that way!  If you keep him upside down, all the blood will go to his head and he'll get a huge headache when he wakes up.  And you've already hit him!!  My poor baby, you —"

"SHUT UP!!!"

A gauntleted hand lashed out and struck her in the face, and Bulma wheeled backwards into the arms of her captor.  The leader scowled at her.  "Give the woman her child.  Maybe it will stop her stupid whining."

  


Bulma straightened, wiping the blood oozing from her cheek with the back of her shaking hand.  "Give him to me," she extended her arms, and one of the soldiers dumped Trunks' body into them.  Bulma held him to her, feeling tears spring to her eyes.  Even Vegeta didn't beat Trunks into unconsciousness.

A rifle jabbed her in the small of the back, prodding her forward.  Bulma had no choice but to walk, surrounded by the cadre of men and women and their array of weaponry.  As she stumbled down the stairs, Bulma heard a shot, and a cut-off  scream.  "Mother!" she cried, and she pushed past the soldiers, running down the last few steps to the livingroom.

Portable floodlights had been set up in the livingroom, and in the harsh white light, a horrible image met Bulma's eyes.  Her mother lay on the floor in a crumpled heap, blood pooling from her head and staining the carpet a deep crimson.  Dr. Briefs knelt beside the body of his wife, tears running down his face.  "No . . ." he whispered.  He was clutching his wife's hand in his, trying to ignore the limpness of it.  

The doctor raised his face, and anger and sorrow contorted his features so they were unrecognizable.  "You didn't have to shoot her!" he cried desperately, staggering to his knees.  "She's dead!"

"Of course she's dead," the squad leader snorted.  "You didn't think we were packing water pistols, did you?  Don't be ridiculous, _old man_."

"Dad!" Bulma dropped to the floor next to him, shaking his shoulder and trying to get a response out of him.  Finally her father met her gaze, but his eyes were vacant, bleak.  

"Bulma . . . your mother . . . she's . . ."

Trunks chose that moment to stir, and his crystal-blue eyes flickered open.  "Mama?" his gaze fell upon the lifeless shell of his grandmother, and the boy screamed in terror.  "Gramma!"

The group of soldiers — mercenaries? terrorists? — laughed.  "Poor li'l tyke," one of them chuckled maliciously, kicking Mrs. Briefs' body with the toe of his boot.  "Must be hard seeing Grandma dead like that, huh?" he laughed.

Trunks buried his face in Bulma's shirt, and she wrapped her house robe around him so he wouldn't be able to see, even by accident.  Her father stared blankly at his wife for a second, then something in his eyes snapped and he shouted in rage and pain.  Reaching up, Dr. Briefs grabbed the barrel of one of the guns and pointed it at himself, then pulled the trigger before its owner could react and stop him.

  


Blood spurted from the exit wound, and the thick, red liquid sprayed Bulma.  She jumped and swiped at her face like she had been burned with acid.  Her father looked at her, eyes boring into hers as the grey film began to cover them.  An apology was written on his face then, in the last moments of lucidity, as his limp body fell forward onto his wife's.  He started to say something, but the blood bubbled from his lips, making the words unintelligible.  A few seconds later, it was obvious the life had left him.

Bulma, though she forced every muscle in her body to move, was unable to tear her eyes away from the grisly scene.  Inside her housecoat, Trunks began to sob.

"Well, that was completely useless.  We needed that old fool!" one of the women sounded disgusted.  "Idiot!  You shouldn't have let him anywhere near a weapon.  Now we'll just have to leave him there and hope his daughter is enough."

Bulma shuddered, and the tears streamed down her face like rain.  "That's my father," she whispered hoarsely, feeling as though she was the one lying on the floor, bleeding, in pain.  In a way she wished she was — death . . . no more pain, no more suffering.  She could be with her parents . . .   _But Trunks . . . and Vegeta . . . you can't just leave them!_  Bulma's teeth ground together in rage, all thoughts of suicide abandoned and forgotten.  She took off her housecoat, though she kept a hand over Trunks' eyes.  "You monsters . . . those are my parents you're talking about, not cattle on the market."

She covered the bodies with her robe, then stood and held Trunks close to her, staring defiantly into the eyes of the murderers.  The pain welled up in her chest until she thought her heart would burst with it, but Bulma used every bit of the core of strength within her to speak clearly.  Her son needed her to be strong for him right now.  "Whatever you wanted me and my father to do, forget it.  I'm not going to do anything for you."

"Funny how brave you are," one of them remarked coldly, and the lack of emotion in his voice made Bulma shiver in spite of herself.  The way these people spoke, the way they acted — they reminded her of Vegeta, when he had first come to Chikyuu.  Relentless, efficient killing machines.  "We'll see how well you stand up to our methods of _persuasion_.  I think you'll come around."

Bulma stood her ground, glowering fiercely.  She couldn't see the man's face, hidden as it was behind the mask he wore, and though his lack of identity made the situation seem even more frightening, Bulma refused to back down.  She was the heir to the Capsule Corp. empire — the head of it now, she thought with a pang of guilt and sorrow that stabbed her like a knife — and she lived with Vegeta, for goodness' sake!  There was no way she was going to let these goons push her around.

Even if they had killed . . . her . . . parents . . .

"You have a weird way of persuading people," Bulma bit out, her words as sharp as the blade of Mirai no Trunks' sword had been.  "After what you did to my parents, what makes you think I'm going to listen to you now?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, a gun was jabbed sharply against her temple, pressing uncomfortably on the sensitive area and making Bulma's head spin.  "Let me spell it out for you.  You can come with us willingly and bring your little brat, or we can kill him, then knock you unconscious and _make_ you come.  It's your choice, Briefs-san."

  


Bulma closed her eyes for a second, trying to block out the anguish that threatened to tear her to pieces.  "I'm sorry, Trunks," she whispered, kissing the top of his head, feeling his soft hair tickle her cheek.  "I don't see what choice we have."

Trunks' eyes narrowed, then suddenly he pulled free of his mother's protective embrace and dropped to the ground.  His expression was one of pure rage, and for a second his face was a carbon copy of his father's — minus, of course, the odd-coloured eyebrows.  "_Don't you threaten my Mama!_" he screamed, fists clenched at his sides.  The small boy let out a yell of frustration and anger, and suddenly a pulsing, white flame burst up around him.  "_Leave her alone_!"

Trunks raised his hands, and his fingers began to glow.  Round orbs of energy grew slowly, until they were the size of baseballs, then Trunks thrust his palms forward and released them.  Two guards were the target of the attack, one of whom, the man with the gun to Bulma's head, and they fell to the ground, twitching for a few seconds before finally lying still.  Trunks stood, panting heavily, still surrounded by the aura of energy.  

"Trunks!" Bulma cried, "Look out!"

The little boy jumped and spun around as a soldier, previously immobilized by shock, brought his weapon to bear.  "Kid, that was a stupid thing to do," the man sneered, flicking off the safety.  "You're gonna' go meet Grandma and Grandpa, now."

"NO!!" Bulma dove for the ground and snatched up the weapon of one of the dead militiamen.  Lifting the heavy gun to her shoulder, Bulma pulled the trigger and sprayed the bullets in a haphazard circle, taking out soldier after soldier.  "I am not some helpless civilian you can terrorize!" she shouted, "I am Briefs Bulma!  You can't come into my house, kill my parents, threaten my son's life, and expect me to come with you like some blasted puppet!"  her antagonists collapsed, blood spurting from the holes in their black uniforms, and soon there was a large pile of dead men and women on the livingroom floor.  There was no one left in sight.

"Mama, you did it!"  Trunks looked up at her, eyes shining with pride and admiration.  He had stopped powering up, Bulma noticed — he must be like Gohan was, his power oscillating with his emotions.  "You got 'em!"  a smile began to permeate the determination in Bulma's expression, slowly spreading across her face — 

— the next second, the smile morphed into a scream as Trunks toppled face-first to the floor, blood dyeing the material of his Piccolo pajamas.  Bulma's knees buckled and she fell beside him, dropping her commandeered gun, holding Trunks' small body to her chest and clutching him to her.  She probed gently into the area of the wound until she found the bullet, and she gingerly dug it out, swallowing bile and the urge to vomit as her fingers became covered in her son's blood.

"Stand up."

Bulma's head snapped around to see one lone soldier standing behind her.  The guard had been hiding behind a chair when Bulma had gone on the attack.

  


"You made a grave mistake," the soldier grated, her voice sounding like pieces of gravel sliding over one another.  "You should not have killed my comrades.  If my orders weren't to take you alive, you can bet there would be pieces of you all over this room."

Bulma didn't even think to pick up a weapon and shoot, as the grief washed over her like a tidal wave, numbing all her senses and shutting down her brain as she cradled the limp form of her son in her arms.  "He's just a baby," she sobbed, "How could you kill a baby?"

Through the slit in the mask, green eyes narrowed.  "If you'd stop your bawling, you'd notice he's breathing.  I hit him with a rubber-coated bullet — but one more stupid move from you and it will be a real one next time.  Now get up."

Faced with the reality of losing her only child, Bulma saw no choice but to comply to the viciously-given order.  She stood, forcing her legs to stop shaking, and she walked forward, trying to ignore the barrel of the gun pressing into the back of her neck in an angry reminder of her predicament.  "Where am I going?"

"You'll see.  Shut up."

Bulma frowned.  _I've tried everything_, she thought desperately, _if I do anything else Trunks will be killed.  I don't know what else is left for me to — Vegeta!_   Suddenly, a ray of hope began to shine upon the dismal situation, but it was a weak one.  _The only thing I can do is hope Vegeta will be able to find me . . . but what if he thinks I'm dead, too?  What if he thinks whoever killed Mom and Dad killed me, and took my body away?  How can I let him know I'm still alive?_

In a flash of decision, Bulma knew what to do.  Surreptitiously raising a hand to her throat, Bulma yanked hard at the gold chain that hung around her neck.  After a few sharp tugs, the necklace broke at the clasp, slithering into Bulma's palm.  She smiled bitterly, and when they came to the doorway, she feigned a stumble on the welcome mat.  Shooting out a hand to the door, ostensibly to stop herself from falling, Bulma hung the necklace on the doorknob.

A gloved hand grabbed her upper arm and hauled her back up to her feet. "Get up and keep moving."

Bulma nodded numbly, and her stomach sank when she saw the black, armoured helicopter sitting on the lawn waiting for her.  _Vegeta . . . I don't know what it is these monsters want me for, but whatever it is — you'd better find me, fast._

She was shoved unceremoniously into the 'copter by the merciless guard, who didn't seem to notice or care when Bulma banged her forehead off the top of the door frame.  Once Bulma was inside, her right hand was handcuffed to a bar on the wall, leaving her left one free to hold Trunks on her lap.  The soldier spoke a few harsh words to the pilot, who nodded and started up the engine.

  


As the rotors whirled to life and the vehicle lifted into the air, Bulma had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She stared out the window, watching in the dim light of the stars as her estate grew smaller and farther away below her.  In that moment, it seemed that Bulma's hope shrank with the image of her home.

The soldier came back to the cargo area of the helicopter, where Bulma was being held.  She sat on a bench across from her prisoner, keeping her gun on her lap while she pulled off her mask.  Bulma jumped; the face that peered out at her was young — this woman couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, yet she was this competent an assassin?

Jade-green eyes glared at Bulma out of a face that looked like it had gone too long without smiling.  Brown hair was pulled back into a tight, serviceable braid, and dark eyebrows were pulled together in a frown of determination and anger above a snarling mouth.  "If it were up to me, you'd be dead by now," the woman remarked conversationally, though her tone was anything but genial.

"Lucky for me your boss wants me alive, then," Bulma shot back.  She was trying to clean the blood from Trunks' back with her shirt, but wasn't being very successful.

Her captor scowled at her, then reached under the bench and pulled out a first-aid kit.  Grabbing Trunks from a startled Bulma, the woman removed Trunks' bloodstained pajama top and slapped a bandage on his gunshot wound.  Another box held spare uniforms, and the soldier quickly dressed Trunks in the smallest shirt she could find.  It still hung down past his feet, the sleeves coming over his hands, but it was better than nothing.

"Thank you," Bulma replied slowly, unsure of what to make of this new development as the woman dumped Trunks back in her lap.

"Save your thanks for someone who cares," was the snappish retort.  "I only did that because you and your brat were supposed to be alive and unharmed.  If he died on the way to th — " she choked, then caught herself before revealing any information.  "If he died on the way there, I'd be executed for failure to accomplish my mission," her mouth twisted in an enraged grimace.  "If, of course, I'm not killed for letting a stupid kid and his mother kill all my accomplices."

"Who _are_ you?"

The woman sneered.  "Just call me Blade.  Remember that, because it's the last thing you'll hear before you die."

"I thought you said —"

"We won't need you forever, and when your usefulness runs out, I will be the one to kill you.  I promise you that."

Bulma shuddered in spite of herself, and she held Trunks to her, attempting to seek comfort in his presence.  At least she wasn't completely alone . . .

******

Well, what do you think? Who are the soldiers? Why do they need Bulma? (Hmm... the summary answered that one. Never mind!) How long do you think Bulma will be able to take being pushed around like that? And more importantly, what will Vegeta do when he gets home? Stay tuned for the next episode!


	2. Daddy's Home!

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. If I did, Kuririn would not have grown that ... that ... moustache! Ugh! Poor, poor (formerly) cute Kuririn ... 

A/N: Here's chapter two. Sorry it's a day late ... extraneous circumstances wouldn't allow me to update yesterday. But anyhow ... Yes, Vegeta fans, the Prince comes home today ... and I doubt he'll be happy! As for Bulma and Trunks, they were separated after they were brought to the . . . well, I'm not telling where they are yet. ^^ But they meet up with each other, too -- and a couple guards learn what it means when they hurt the mother of a certain 6-yr.-old Saiyajin princeling . . . 

Damsel in Distress?  Not Likely!

**Chapter Two: Daddy's Home**

The lights were out in the house when Vegeta returned, save for a white light in the livingroom that didn't look like the normal household illumination.  He shrugged to himself as he landed on the lawn; probably the woman's computer had overloaded the generator again.  Vegeta winced, hoping no important programs had been lost in the power outage — Bulma would be in a foul mood for a week, and probably wouldn't come to bed until all the information had been regained.  Darn that computer . . .

Vegeta reached out a hand to open the door, but he froze halfway through the action.  Glittering in the starlight was Bulma's necklace, hanging on the doorknob.  Vegeta took it slowly, holding it in the palm of his hand and gazing at it in horror.  

He had given her the gold chain after Cell had been defeated, as a sort of apology for not helping her with Trunks.  Vegeta knew that Bulma _never_ took the necklace off — it meant as much to her as the wedding bands that Kakarotto and Kuririn's wives wore.  He'd found it rather amusing at first that a silly trinket meant so much to the woman, but seeing the look on her face when he'd given it to her made the "sentimental nonsense" all worthwhile.  Funny how she could do that to him . . .

Seeing the chain on the doorknob could only mean one thing — trouble.

Come to think of it, Vegeta realized he couldn't sense any ki coming from the house.  The faintest sense of panic began to scrabble at his throat.  What was going on?  Not wanting to waste any more time, Vegeta pulled open the door with such force that he ripped it right off its hinges, and ran into the house.

As soon as he was inside, Vegeta knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.  He wasn't three feet inside the door before the stench of blood hit him, nearly knocking him over.  Whoever was dead in the house, there sure were an awful lot of them!

He made his way to the livingroom, from where the light was emanating — it turned out to be a portable floodlight set up on the floor.  Vegeta's eyes bugged out as he saw the bodies of eleven heavily-armed soldiers, lying in a pile — next to two lifeless forms covered by Bulma's bloody house robe.  

"Please don't be Bulma under there," Vegeta found himself saying, feeling as though a hand was squeezing every drop of blood from his heart, and he lifted the housecoat slowly.

Instead of Bulma, the bodies of her parents were revealed.  Both had been shot through the head.

"It can't be," Vegeta declared hoarsely, his voice rasping with surprise.  He had never gotten along particularly well with Bulma's parents, but they'd always done what he'd asked them without complaint — at least, none to his face.  Mrs. Briefs had fixed his meals and kept his clothes clean when Bulma was busy, and Dr. Briefs was always there to update the Gravitron when Bulma refused, or to build him spacecraft when Vegeta wanted to leave.  They were merely weak humans, but they had taken him in when everyone else on the planet thought he could not be trusted.

The skin at the corners of Vegeta's eyes tightened, and his sense of warrior's dignity prevailed.  He lifted a hand and closed the humans' pain-filled eyes, feeling that even the woman's parents deserved to die a better death than whatever had befallen them.

It wasn't long before Vegeta stood up, and his jaw was set with determination as he held Bulma's necklace tightly in his fist.  "BULMA!" he shouted, straining his excellent Saiyajin hearing for any trace of a reply, but there was none.  He searched the entire house, inside every room and behind every piece of furniture, flaring up his ki so that he filled each room with a bright, blue glow.

  


Suddenly, Vegeta realized something else; his six-year-old son was missing, as well.  Fear gripped Vegeta's heart then, for though Trunks was extremely strong for his age, he was as yet untrained — and unless someone got him very angry, his powers would stay at a fairly low level.

The first thing that came to mind was that Bulma and Trunks were dead — but this was dismissed after a moment of careful thought.  If they had been killed, their bodies would have been lying there with Dr. and Mrs. Briefs.  There was no logical explanation for them to have been killed and their bodies removed.

Besides, Vegeta would know if Bulma died.

Vegeta frowned to himself as he went back to the livingroom.  Clearly those in uniform were hired assassins or soldiers, from where Vegeta had no idea — and as to what had transpired here, he could only guess.  Two of the soldiers had been killed by an energy blast to the chest, undoubtably courtesy of Trunks.  Despite the severity of the situation, a tight smile of pride for his son crept across Vegeta's face.  

The rest of the militiamen and women had died from bullets from one of their soldier's weapons.  Had one of their own turned on them and killed them?  Vegeta's eyes narrowed, and he examined the placement of the bullet wounds.  Looking at the way the soldiers had fallen, and where the bullets had struck, it was apparent that whoever had shot the gun had waved it around in a haphazard manner, without any careful aim.  No professional assassin would shoot like that, Vegeta knew for a fact.

As another fact, Vegeta knew only one person who did.  He'd seen her at target practice before, and the sight had sent him running for cover.

Bulma.  

She and Trunks must have taken matters into their own hands, Vegeta deduced, and again the corners of his mouth lifted upward before the scowl slammed in place over his features once more.  It was apparent that Bulma and Trunks had missed at least one person in their killing spree, and that this person or persons had been enough to overpower them and take them away.

A low growl rose up in the bottom of Vegeta's throat, and his fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails bit into his palms.  He had to find who had done this, to get back Trunks . . . and Bulma.  No one could kidnap _his_ son and _his_ woman!  Not only was it an affront to his Saiyajin pride, it was . . . it was . . .

Vegeta knew perfectly well what it was, and his lip curled in a snarl as he left the house quickly.  It was because, despite his grumbling, Vegeta felt protective towards his son, and Bulma, and he'd be blasted to pieces if anyone was to take them away from him!

As he took off into the air, Vegeta began wracking his brain to think of anyone who hated him or Bulma enough to do something like this.  But no matter how hard he thought, Vegeta could not come up with a single suspect.  Finally, the Saiyajin blew out his breath in a sigh of defeat.  Though it would be a blow to his pride, there was only one thing left to do — he had to visit the one person who knew Bulma almost as well as he did.

******

A loud explosion woke a groggy Yamucha from a restless sleep, and he sat bolt upright in bed.  "Wh-what?" he demanded sleepily, and the blankets tangled around his legs when he tried to stand, so that as he got out of bed he landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Another explosion, closer this time, and an angry shout.  "_Human_!  Get down here now!"

  


Yamucha rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in an exasperated prayer to Dende-sama.  "O, no.  Not Vegeta.  Not this late at night, please!  Dende, what did I ever do to you?" he fought to disentangle himself from the bedclothes, and yelled down the hall, "I'm coming!"

"_Now_!"

"All right, all right.  Now," Yamucha sighed and struggled to his feet, the blanket still wrapped hopelessly around his legs.  He managed to stumble to the front door — or rather, what was left of it.  Apparently the explosions had been the front gate and the door.  An enraged Vegeta stood in his front foyer, but immediately Yamucha was put on guard — there was concern in the Saiyajin's expression, mixed with anger and — could it be? — fear, as well.

"What's the matter?" Yamucha demanded, his mind springing instantly to battle mode.  Even after two years of living in peace, his old combat reflexes were still fresh within him.

"The woman and Trunks are gone," Vegeta explained, leaving no room for subtleties. "Her parents have been shot.  I want to know who could have done this."

A combination of shock and the sheets entangled around his feet caused Yamucha to fall over.  "Bulma is gone?" he repeated dully, feeling like his heart had been ripped from him.  He finally grew impatient and blasted the blanket to ashes, and he climbed to his feet.  "What happened?"

Vegeta filled him in on the details, speaking in his usual curt tone, but Yamucha could tell he was worried for the safety of Bulma and his son.  Once the Saiyajin had finished, he fixed Yamucha with a steely-eyed glare.  "Well?  Have you any idea who is behind this?"

"Gosh, Vegeta . . ." Yamucha scratched his head, thinking hard.  "I really don't know.  I haven't been involved in Bulma's company for a few years now, but I know enough that none of her major competitors have the funds for anything like that.  If those soldiers were mercenaries, that is.  If not, we're dealing with something completely out of my league.  There was no ransom note or anything left?"

"Nothing," Vegeta shook his head.  "Auughh," he snorted, "You're useless.  I don't know why I bothered coming here.  Go back to bed, you weakling."

Yamucha frowned as Vegeta turned back to the ruins of the front door and started to fly off.  "Hey, wait!  Where are you going?"

Vegeta stared at Yamucha like he had "stupid" tattooed on his head or something.  "Are you dense?  I'm going to find them."

"Do you even know where they _are_?"

"No," Vegeta's tone was frustrated, and he bit out the words like he didn't want to be reminded of that fact.  "But I'll find them."

Yamucha hesitated for a second as Vegeta took to the skies, then he ran a few steps and flew into the air himself.  "Wait, Vegeta!  I'm coming."

The look the Saiyajin gave him made Yamucha feel like he was a bacterium on a slide, being peered at through a microscope.  "You?  Don't make me laugh, human.  You would only slow me down."

The scarred warrior crossed his arms, his stubborn glare matching Vegeta's eyeball for eyeball.  "Look, I care about Bulma and Trunks, too.  This affects me almost as much as it does you," he cocked an eyebrow, then took a calculated risk and added, "Besides, if you didn't want me to interfere, you wouldn't have come here in the first place."

  


Vegeta opened his mouth to retort, but clamped it shut after a second, eyebrows knitting together in an expression of fury. "Maybe you might be of some infinitesimal use," he admitted grudgingly, and Yamucha felt a stab of triumph.  "You have more knowledge about this planet's stupid policies than I care to clutter my mind with.  But I'm warning you, if you hinder my progress I'll blast you."

"I want to find them just as much as you do," Yamucha argued.  "I won't slow you down.  I promise."

Vegeta grunted in response, but Yamucha knew that was as good a reply as he was ever going to get from the arrogant warrior. 

"All right," Yamucha's eyes narrowed in thought.  "No ransom note, so this had nothing to do with you.  If it had, then you would have received at least _something_, wanting you to come fight or anything along those lines.  It can't have anything to do with her company, either — again, there would have been a note or a threat left.  So whatever the motive behind this was, it had to have something to do with Bulma herself."

"Now I know why I came to you," Vegeta snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  "Your intelligence is incredible," he snarled.  "Incredibly low, I mean!  Of _course_ it had something to do with Bulma!"

"You're not listening," Yamucha protested.  "What could Bulma do for anyone?"

Vegeta just raised an eyebrow.

Yamucha's face reddened with embarrassment.  "That is _not_ what I meant!" he spluttered for a minute.  "Vegeta, get serious!"

"I was serious."

"No, I — _aughh_!" Yamucha threw up his hands in defeat.  "Well, _that_ aside, Vegeta, why would someone want to kidnap Bulma?" suddenly, he snapped his fingers triumphantly.  "Her programming!  Bulma invents stuff all the time.  Maybe somebody wants her to invent something illegal for them.  Trunks must be there to make her listen to whoever kidnapped her."

Vegeta frowned.  Though he didn't want to admit it, the human had actually made a valid point.  "H'm.  Perhaps."

Yamucha nodded.  "Even if I'm wrong, we'd better not waste time.  We should get going soon."

"Smartest thing you've said all day."

Yamucha took the sort-of compliment without comment and was preparing to fly, when he remembered he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers.  Good thing Vegeta was in too agitated a state to have noticed, else he would have made fun of him, no doubt.  Yamucha held up a hand.  "Let me just get some clothes and stuff, all right?  It'll just take a minute or so."

"You have _one_ minute . . . and don't think I won't count!"

The scarred warrior was back in his allotted time, and the two men took off, leaving a trail of energy behind them.

******

A pair of wide, curious blue, eyes blinked, then slammed shut instinctively as knives seemed to jab at his head and back from all angles.  Trunks groaned and forced himself to sit up, feeling pain burning in his back.  He placed a tiny hand on the sore area, and it came away sticky with drying blood.

  


The boy shook his head, trying to will away the discomfort, using the mind-over-matter technique Papa had showed him as he looked around the room he was in.  It was fairly empty, except for him, with little furniture and no windows or pictures on the walls or toys to play with.  There was a small bathroom off to one side of the room, as well as a thin mattress and blanket that he assumed was supposed to serve as a bed.

"Is anybody here?" Trunks called nervously, and his own voice bounced from wall to wall jeeringly, laughing at him, and he backed away to the middle of the room.  Suddenly he felt scared — he was all alone in this big, empty room.  He wanted Mama.  He wanted Papa.  He wanted Goten.  He wanted _anybody_.  Anything but being stuck in this place all by himself.

Trunks drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, and it was then he noticed that the shirt he was wearing was far too large for him.  He peeled it off, looking at the material curiously, noting that the back of the shirt had been stained with his blood.  Again Trunks touched the small of his back, and this time he felt the bandage covering a wound that he didn't remember receiving.

He thought for a minute, then he remembered the blinding pain that had occurred just before the swirling blackness — after Mama had killed all those soldiers.  Mama must have missed one.  Someone must have shot him.  Despite the obvious gravity of his predicament, Trunks grinned widely.  He'd been shot, with a real gun!  Wait until Goten heard about this!

The smile faded.  _If_ he ever got out of here, wherever "here" was.  And where was Mama?  Had they . . . had they killed her, too?  Trunks' eyes widened, and despite every effort he made to stop them, tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down over his cheeks.  He didn't want Mama to be dead.  He didn't want anybody to be dead, except whoever did this to him.

The little boy curled up in a ball on the floor, tucking his knees up under his chin and rocking back and forth, crying softly. He knew Papa would have hit him or something for crying, for being a weak baby, but he couldn't help it. No matter how hard he tried to be brave, the tears kept coming.

Just when Trunks thought he couldn't handle it anymore, the door slid open.  He got to his feet quickly, holding his borrowed shirt tightly, wadding it up into a crumpled mess between his little fists.  He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, not wanting whoever it was in the doorway to think he was a baby.

It was soon apparent that it didn't matter what the person thought of him.  "Come," the person ordered, coming to stand in front of Trunks.  Trunks looked up . . . and up . . . and up . . . to see a tall lady glaring down at him.  She had brown hair that was longer than Mama's, and green eyes that made him shiver.  She didn't look nice at all.

This was confirmed when the lady grabbed Trunks by the hair and dragged him out the door after her.  Trunks squealed in pain and clutched at the woman's fingers, trying to dislodge her grip.  Even Papa didn't pull his hair — that was just mean!  "Leggo," he complained, still struggling as he was propelled down the corridor faster than his short legs could run with comfort.  "I won't run away.  I don't know where to go anyway!"

"Shut up," the woman snapped at him.  "I don't like little kids and I like you even less.  Don't push me."

Trunks looked up at her, and when he was certain her gaze was directed elsewhere, he stuck his tongue out at her.  It didn't accomplish anything, but it made him feel a little better.  Papa had always chided him when Trunks did something silly like sticking out his tongue or making faces, saying that was what babies did — but Mama had argued right back.  She said that Trunks was only six, and until he killed somebody, he could act as silly as he wanted.

That sobered him up quickly.  Mama had _meant_ well, but she hadn't actually thought her sweet little boy would kill anyone.  Trunks' face fell as he remembered the bodies of the two men crumpling to the floor the night before.  They were dead — really, really dead.  Deader, even, than the mosquitoes Trunks would squish if they tried to bite him.  He felt bad that he'd killed somebody; he'd taken away their chance to eat, sleep, laugh, have fun, watch sunsets, play . . . anything in life that they'd ever liked doing.  It wasn't a good feeling.

  


But along with the remorse was something else.  When his power had zoomed up like that and the energy had shot from his hands, Trunks had felt something different.  A sense of . . . of _something_.  He'd felt happy — insanely happy.  He had never felt so strong in his entire life, and the whatever-it-was had run through his body like it had taken the place of the blood inside him.  It felt like . . . like the one time Goten had dared him to stick his finger in a light socket, and Trunks had done it.  Yeah, that was it — it was like electricity, shocking him and filling him with power.  It had hurt, kind of, but Trunks hadn't minded.  It felt too good for the hurt to make him want to stop.

The only bad thing was, that kind of power killed people.

In spite of himself, Trunks let out a whimper.  He wanted to feel that power again, but he didn't want to kill.  That wasn't what he wanted to do — he wanted to be a warrior like Papa, but without having to make other people die.  Unless, of course, the people who had kidnapped him tried to hurt Mama again.  If they made Mama cry out of pain again, he would make _them_ hurt.  Trunks scowled defiantly, and he glared up at the woman who still held him by the hair.  This lady would go first, if he had to.  Trunks didn't want to kill, but if they made him . . . he would.  Nobody made his Mama cry and got away with it.

Mean Lady (as Trunks defiantly decided he would call her) tugged hard on his hair, making the boy wince.  Trunks was sure he would be as bald as Muten Rôshi when this was over.  He glanced up to see the lady glowering at him.  "Kid, we're going to see your mother now.  I'm warning you, any false moves and she'll get hurt.  Don't think I'm kidding, either."

"You hurt my Mama and I'll hurt you," Trunks replied, grabbing the lady's fingers and trying again, unsuccessfully, to free himself.  "You're not nice at all.  And if I don't hurt you, when my Papa finds us, he'll kill you!  He'll blast you to pieces and then make you _eat_ yourself!"

Mean Lady's lip curled in a nasty sneer.  "You talk big, kid.  Too bad your 'Papa' won't find you."

"Whaddaya' mean, he won't?" Trunks demanded vehemently, "He's my Papa!  He's smarter than you.  He'll kill _all_ you bad people!"

"Shut up!" Mean Lady let go of Trunks' hair, but only so she could give him a vicious backhand to the face.  Trunks stumbled, but looked up at her with a grin.

"Papa hits me harder 'n' that when we're playing.  You gotta' do better than that."

Mean Lady growled, low under her breath, but she just caught a new fistful of Trunks' hair and yanked him down the hall again.  Trunks grimaced, but pretended it didn't hurt.  He didn't want to give Mean Lady the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Finally, after what seemed like hours to Trunks' sore scalp and tired legs, he and Mean Lady reached a door.  Trunks frowned at it, since it looked exactly the same to him as the one he had just left.  If Mean Lady had brought him back to his room, he would get really mad . . .

But no, the number on this door was different.  This room was number 803.  Trunks tried to remember what number his room had been, but he didn't know.  He'd have to check that later.  Mean Lady punched a button on a keypad by the door, and when an angry-sounding man answered through a speaker in the wall, she replied in a loud voice.  Trunks winced as her voice rasped in his ears.  He didn't like Mean Lady at all.

As the door slid open, Trunks thought to himself, _Mama'd better be okay.  She's not as strong as Papa and I are.  If somebody hit her, I'm gonna' get mad._

"Trunks!"

  


Trunks' head spun around, and he saw Mama sitting in a chair with her hands chained to the arms.  Her face, the one that Papa had boasted (in secret, of course) was the prettiest one in the galaxy, was caked with blood all down one side, and her other eye was stuck shut from where blood had trickled down from a cut beneath her eyebrow.  Cuts and bruises covered her arms and shoulders.  Her hair, which Papa liked to play with when he thought Trunks couldn't see him, had straggled loose from its ponytail and hung in tangles over her shoulders, wet with blood from where it had touched her face.  Her bangs were matted together and stuck to her forehead.

"Mama!" Trunks yelled in horror, and he spun around to look at Mean Lady.  "You weren't s'posed to hurt her!" he screamed, hysterics getting the better of him.  He jerked away from her grip, hardly noticing that the woman's fist now held more than a few lavender strands of hair in it.  "What did they do to you?" he demanded.

A soldier stepped in front of Trunks when he tried to run to Mama, but Trunks kicked him in behind the knee, in the spot Papa had shown him.  The man let out a yell of pain as his knee dislocated and let Trunks pass.  Trunks ran to Mama and jumped onto her lap, feeling so guilty that he had let her get hurt.  He was supposed to protect Mama — Papa had told him that when he was little.

He was still holding the shirt he'd somehow been given, and Trunks used it in a clumsy attempt to wipe the blood off Mama's face.  It didn't work, so Trunks threw the shirt on the floor and flung his arms around Mama's neck, hugging her tightly.  He heard the chains clink as Mama tried to hug him back.  "My poor baby," Mama whispered.  "Are you all right?"

"Me?" Trunks sat back and looked at her, and he lifted a tiny hand to try to brush the sticky bangs off her forehead.  "You're the one that's hurt, Mama.  I'm sorry I didn't pertect you right."

"'Protect', Trunks," Mama smiled.  "And don't worry.  It was my fault that I got hurt, not yours.  I tried to get away so I could find you, but the soldiers caught me."

"They didn't hafta' be so mean to you," Trunks protested. "That's . . . that's . . . that's just _mean_!"

He turned in Mama's lap so he could scowl furiously at the assembled soldiers.  They were all grinning, like the face Papa made whenever he sparred with somebody that was losing.  "It's not funny!" Trunks shouted at them, "You're s'posed to be nice to girls, 'specially Mamas!  Don't you have manners?"

Mama shook her head, and she whispered in his ear, "Don't talk back to them.  You'll only get hurt."

"I don't care," Trunks' small body shook with rage.  "They can't — they _can't_ — hurt you and then laugh.  Even Papa's  not that nasty!"

He jumped off her lap and ran toward one of the men.  He could feel the power inside him again, and instead of trying to focus it — like Gohan and Piccolo-san tried to teach him to do — he just let it explode out of him like lava in a volcano.  The energy shot from his hands, and one of the men went down.  Trunks grinned, and again he had the feeling of exhilaration.  _Now_ he knew why Papa fought.  _Now_ he knew why Papa spent so much time in the Gravitron, even when Mama yelled at him to come inside.  This power was like . . . like a drug.  The more he got, the more he wanted.

Suddenly Trunks felt something hit him like a giant wave, and all the power that was building inside him died.  It felt like the time he'd watched a bug fly into Piccolo-san when he powered up — the poor little insect had shrivelled up and died, just like that.  That was how Trunks was feeling.  His legs seemed to turn into jelly, and he fell to the ground.  As he lay there, as weak as a little worm in the dirt, Trunks wondered why his arms and legs wouldn't stop twitching so much.  It was really annoying . . .

"Trunks!  Are you all right?  Stop it, you —" (Mama said a word that Trunks would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap if he'd repeated it) " — That's my _child_!"

  


Trunks forced his jittering eyelids to open, and his blurred vision to focus.  A tall man stood over him, holding a funny-looking gun.  Trunks had never seen that kind of weapon before, and there had been plenty of them pointed at him today and yesterday.   The man had black hair, really short and kind of spiky, standing straight up off his head.  His eyes, from what Trunks could discern, were brown, and his face was tight like he always had his teeth clenched.  There were laugh lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, but they were years old — like he hadn't laughed for a long time.  He looked strong, though nowhere near as strong as Papa.

"There you have it, Briefs-san," the man said to Mama, nudging Trunks lightly with the toe of his boot.  Funny, but that little act hurt even more than one of Papa's punches.  "I hadn't intended to demonstrate the weapon's properties so soon, but it doesn't matter."

"What did you do?" Mama's voice sounded more worried than Trunks had heard in a long time.  She sounded as scared as the time Papa had blown up the Gravitron and had to stay in bed for more than a week.  "Will he be all right?  If he isn't, I swear I will find some way to hurt you . . ."

"Don't get yourself into a snit," the man reassured her.  "The weapon just reduced his energy to zero.  Quite handy, actually.  But don't worry, it's only temporary.  I hit him with the lowest setting, so it should wear off in about ten minutes."

The chains rattled again, and Trunks fought as hard as he could to see.  Mama's face was bright red with anger, and had Trunks been able to move, he would have smiled.  When Mama got _that_ mad, even Papa stopped arguing and did what she told him to do.  These soldiers had to be pretty stupid if they weren't scared by now.

Mama's fists were clenched, and she was straining to lift her arms, to break the chains even though it was a hopeless effort.  Trunks could see blood dribbling down her wrists as the shackles cut into her skin, but Mama didn't seem to notice.  Trunks knew that as soon as the bad people were out of the room Mama would probably start to cry from the pain, but as long as someone was watching her, she'd pretend to be brave.

Finally the man who had shot Trunks (or Gun Man, as Trunks decided to identify him) pointed a finger at one of the other soldiers.  "Hey, you!  Unchain the woman, will you?  I doubt _he_ would be happy if Briefs-san is any more injured than she already is."

The soldier Gun Man had been talking to jumped and ran to unlock the chains from Mama's wrists.  As soon as she was free, Mama pushed past all the stupid men and ran to Trunks, where she picked him up in her arms gently.  Even that hurt, but Trunks didn't have the energy to complain.  He felt so weak . . . even when he tried to speak, his lips moved soundlessly.  Mama looked at him sadly, like she was hurting inside.

"Poor Trunks," she whispered, then stared up at Gun Man with a stubborn look on her face.  It was hard to look tough when she was all beat up like that, but Mama managed it somehow.  "Do you want to beat up on a six-year-old some more, or have you finished showing how macho you are?" she snapped.

Gun Man frowned at her.  "Look, I can't have your son running around and killing my men.  And like I've already told you, it won't harm him permanently.  Once the paralysis wears off, he'll be back to normal," he ignored Mama for the moment and looked at the guard he'd yelled at earlier.  "Take Briefs-san and her son to room 336 and inform the General of the statistics of the mission.  Make sure to include the fatality on our side, too."

The soldier paled at the last part, then he frowned.  "Room 336?  But that's a guest suite!"

"Of course it is," Gun Man snapped.  "I know what I'm doing. They will be staying here quite a while, and I don't see the point in keeping them in one of the cells.  We are soldiers, not barbarians!"

The other man sighed reluctantly, then nodded.  "Yes, sir.  May I at least remove all potential weapons from the suite beforehand?"

Gun Man thought for a minute, then noted the determined expression on Mama's face and nodded.  "I think so.  You!" he pointed to Mean Lady.  "Blade!  Take the two to the mess hall and get them something to eat."

  


"Sir . . ." Mean Lady's eyebrows were furrowed in anger.  "The boy killed one of your men, and you are going to pamper him like a spoiled little palace brat?"

"Who said anything about spoiling?" Gun Man shot back.  "I just said to feed him.  As for Jones, he was an idiot not to get out of the way.  We were warned about this boy and his species.  Don't contradict me, Blade.  Do as I order."

Mean Lady's lip twitched, and for a second Trunks thought she was going to disagree — but then she touched her fingers to her forehead in a sharp salute and nodded.  "Yes, sir," she gave Mama and Trunks a dirty look, and Trunks ached for the freedom of movement so he could make a face at her .  "Come with me." 

Mama squeezed Trunks comfortingly as she followed Mean Lady out of the room.  "Don't worry about a thing," she promised him, "You're going to be okay.  Daddy will find us soon, and everything will be fine."

******

H'm. Yamucha's in the mix now, eh? :: grins :: We'll have to see how long he can take flying with a volatile and rather worried Saiyajin Prince as his travelling companion. ^^ As for Bulma, she still doesn't know what she's in for . . . but at least she's got Trunks -- and it looks like she's going to protect him. Go Bulma! And what about 'Gun Man'? He doesn't seem all that bad, does he? 

Next chapter: Bulma finally is informed of the reason behind her abduction, and maybe finds herself with a potential ally? We'll see . . . 


	3. Negotiations

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball/Z/GT. Obviously. Gee, what were you people thinking?? 

A/N: This'll be the last update for a while ... sorry. For those who didn't read my profile, finals are coming up and they're a bit more important than updating. So, until February, see ya' later! I'll miss you!! ^_^ 

Damsel in Distress?  Not Likely!

**Chapter Three: "Negotiations"**

Trunks' cry woke Bulma from a restless slumber.  She had been tossing and turning all night, the words of the Captain echoing through her mind.  

_"Tomorrow, the General will see you.  I could tell you everything he will, but I think he'll want to tell you himself," the Captain shrugged. "It's policy."_

_Bulma fixed the man with a cold stare as she sat in an armchair in her new quarters.  Trunks was lying on the bed, having his afternoon nap, dressed in a new set of clothes the Captain had provided for him.  "Listen, sir, I'm grateful for this room and everything, but I can't forget that I am being held here against my will.  Not to mention, you shot my son with a weapon that has who-knows-what as side effects."_

_A muscle in the Captain's cheek twitched.  "I already told you, I don't wish to harm you or your son.  I was merely trying to keep the number of casualties among my subordinates to a minimum.  I doubt the General will be pleased to discover that one of his officers was killed by a child."_

_"Three men," Bulma corrected, smiling tightly.  "Last night, when we were captured, Trunks killed two.  I shot nine."_

_The Captain's eyes widened. "Really?  Blade forgot to mention that."_

_On the bed, Trunks began to stir.  The Captain glanced at him, then folded his hands behind his back.  "Give him some water — that should help ease the headache he had earlier.  There shouldn't be any other side effects."_

_Bulma raised an eyebrow.  Something in the Captain's expression was evasive when he'd said that.  "I don't like the sound of that.  What other side effects, Captain?"_

_The man scratched the back of his head nervously, and Bulma noted that he wasn't affecting a very military air at the moment.  "Well, sometimes nightmares can occur.  He should be fine, but if in the case that nightmares do happen, tell the guard outside your door to get me."_

_Bulma nodded.  "I will be sure to do that, Captain," she got up and went over to Trunks, who was struggling to sit up.  "Believe me, I will."_

_The Captain's mouth quirked at that, perhaps in an expression of amusement, and he turned to leave.  As he reached the door, however, he glanced back over his shoulder.  "You might want to clean the blood off your face and out of your hair.  The General won't be pleased if he knew my men had abused you."_

_Bulma's lip curled.  "I see.  Thank you for your concern."_

_His shoulders hunched, as if Bulma's remark had stung him.  "Well, it's true.  Make sure you get lots of sleep tonight.  You'll want your brain to be in fully-functional order for tomorrow."_

_"Really?"_

_"Really.  Please, as a word of warning — don't downplay your genius tomorrow.  The General knows the extent of your intelligence, and if you try to pretend you're stupid, he won't be happy."_

_Bulma raised an eyebrow.  "What?  What does my intelligence have to do with anythC"_

_"I've said too much already," the Captain shook his head, and left the room.  Bulma heard the door beep as the electronic lock clicked in._

Bulma shook her head, and she turned to Trunks.  "Trunks?  Trunks, honey, are you all right?  Wake up!" she shook him lightly, but the little boy tossed in her arms and cried out, not hearing her or waking up.

  


His tiny face was soaked with sweat, and his newly-acquired pajamas were sticking to him.  (How the Captain knew Trunks — and Bulma's — clothing sizes was more than mildly frightening.)  Tears streamed down his face, and Trunks' expression was filled with fear.  "Mama!" he cried out, "Papa!  Goten!  Come back!"

Bulma left Trunks on the bed for a minute, and she strode over to the door.  There was a panel below the light switch, and Bulma punched the "call" button angrily.  Within a few seconds, the watch-guard answered, sounding a little sleepy.  "Y-yes?"

"My son is having nightmares," Bulma said sharply, "The Captain said to tell you to call him if this happened."

"Uh . . ." the man sounded skeptical, but Bulma pounded the door with her fist.

"NOW!" she shouted, and from the hall came a noise like the man had jumped in surprise.  "I don't know what the Captain will do to you if he finds out you disobeyed him, but I doubt it will be good!"

There was a few seconds' pause, then the guard replied, "All right, I'm going.  Don't have a heart attack," he muttered.

Bulma paced back and forth across the bedroom, knowing that it would be impossible to wake Trunks herself, muttering slightly obscene threats and imprecations against the Captain for firing the weapon in the first place.  When the door buzzer finally sounded, Bulma was about ready to chew her arm off, she was so agitated.  Hearing Trunks screaming for her, Vegeta, and Goten and being unable to wake him was more than she could bear.

Throwing on a housecoat that had been in the closet (_How long have they been preparing for this?_ she wondered idly), Bulma hit the intercom button.  "If you're the Captain, come in.  If you're not, don't bother," she snapped, though she knew she had no choice if the person on the other side of the door really wanted to come in.

"It's the Captain."

Bulma stepped back from the door as it slid open, and the Captain entered, in full uniform.  Bulma grinned to herself as the sudden image of the man sleeping in uniform sprang, unbidden, to mind.  "Well, your nightmares happened," she raised an eyebrow, leading the Captain over to Trunks, who was thrashing back and forth and crying.  Though she could have imagined it, Bulma thought she saw sadness creep into the Captain's expression.

He flicked on the bedside lamp and perched himself on the bed, then pulled Trunks into his lap.  "Hey, kid, it's all right," he said soothingly, brushing Trunks' damp hair off his forehead.  "Nothing's going to hurt you," the Captain took a small syringe from a pouch on his belt and filled it with a clear, blue liquid.

Bulma let out a small yelp of protest at the sight of the serum, but the Captain just smiled.  "Don't worry.  This is the antidote for the nightmares."

"'Don't worry'," Bulma snorted, "I've heard _that_ before.  But I don't have any choice, do I?"

"Not really," the Captain lifted Trunks' arm and carefully  inserted the needle into the boy's flesh.  Trunks' face scrunched up for a second, then he relaxed.  The Captain smiled and put the syringe and bottle of serum away, then he propped Trunks up on his shoulder and rubbed the boy's back gently.

Bulma watched them for a few minutes, noting how the expression on Trunks' face eased into one of calm and contentment.  "You have children," she observed.

The Captain got a reminiscent look on his face.  "I did.  A daughter," a small smile touched his expression, and he looked at Trunks.  The little boy had curled one hand around the Captain's neck in his sleep, and was now breathing peacefully.  "You should be proud of your son."

"I am."

The Captain shook himself, as though to remind himself that he was a soldier who was holding the two prisoner.  "Yes, well . . . did you happen to notice if your son was saying anything?"

"He was calling for me, his father, and his best friend," Bulma explained, shuddering as she remembered the terror that had filled every nuance of her son's voice as he screamed.  "He kept calling for us to 'come back'.  Why?"

  


The soldier nodded, as though Bulma had reaffirmed a thought of his.  "As I suspected.  Generally, the nightmares are of one's biggest fears.  It seems your son's worst fear is of being alone, without his family and friends.  They can be quite frightening — that is why I always keep this antidote on hand."

Bulma looked at him, and a few thought processes ran through her head before she spoke.  "You sound like you've been on the receiving end of that weapon before."

"Once or twice.  I was the General's lab rat, when I was first drafte — that is, when I first volunteered for the army," the General shivered suddenly, and in a quick motion he handed Trunks back to his mother.  "The symptoms should be completely erased by now.  It shouldn't happen again, but if it does, call me.  Now really, you must get some sleep."

"I'm going to try," Bulma promised, and she stood up, still cradling Trunks.  "Thank you for helping Trunks," she paused, then asked timidly, "What happened to your daughter?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," the Captain's voice was cold, impersonal.  "Nothing happened to my daughter.  Good night, Briefs-san," then he smiled, as though to take away the sting from his words.  "Let me warn you, ma'am — don't talk back to the General.  He won't shoot on low power, and there will definitely be no antidotes."

Bulma frowned.  "If it were just me, I wouldn't listen to a thing you said . . . but I don't want my son in any more pain."

The Captain smiled, acknowledging that this was the correct response.  He glanced around, as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping or watching, then he took the pouch from his belt and set it on the bed.  "Keep this, just in case.  Fifty milligrams for low power, and an additional fifty for each increase in power.  Use a full syringe for top strength, in case you aren't sure."

"Thank you again," Bulma followed him to the door, and she watched as the man halted before going outside.

"Please be careful tomorrow," the Captain warned her, and he made a move like he was going to ruffle Trunks' hair, but thought better of it and returned his hand to his side.  

"I will, Captain."

The Captain frowned.  "Captain Entare, Briefs-san."

Bulma smiled in spite of herself — despite the fact that this man was the leader of the troops who had killed her parents, she couldn't help liking him a little.  Especially after how he acted toward her son.  "I will, Entare-san."

******

"Get up, Briefs!" came an angry, female shout from outside the door, as a heavy fist pounded on it.  "Time to leave."

Bulma straightened Trunks' hair one final time, glad (not for the first time) that he had been born with her hair, not his father's, then stood.  Holding Trunks' hand and glaring at him when he tried to mess up his hair, Bulma punched the intercom.  "We've been up for an hour.  What do you want?"

The person on the other side of the door — whose voice Bulma recognized as belonging to Blade — sounded surprised and not a little miffed.  "Well . . . get out here, then!" the doorlock clicked, then the door slid open and Bulma came face-to-face with the barrel of a submachine gun, with Blade's stony face behind it.  A full complement of guards was behind her.

"Please," Bulma scoffed, picking Trunks up.  "Are you that afraid of an unarmed woman and a six-year-old boy?"

"Don't play innocent," Blade growled, shoving Bulma into the centre of the armed cadre.  "I've seen you kill my comrades.  I won't let you get away with it again.  I'm warning you — one move like that and I'll kill you.  I'll say you jumped me, that it was self-defense.  None of my men will contradict me."

"I wouldn't give you that pleasure, thanks," Bulma sneered, shooting a glance at Trunks to see how well he was handling things.  The little boy was merely looking around curiously, taking in the details of the hall, with its metal walls and floors and inexplicable air of order.

A few minutes later, Trunks spoke up.  "Is this a military place?"

  


Blade, who was walking beside them with her gun pointed at Bulma's head, looked startled.  She tried to cover it up with her usual expression of indifferent rage, but Bulma saw it first.  "What are you talking about, boy?"

Trunks shrugged.  "It just looks like it.  I was looking at one of Gohan-san's books one time, and this reminds me of a picture I saw of the Red Ribbon Army base."

"Shut up, brat," Blade snapped, ramming Bulma's head none-too-gently with the weapon.  "Don't make me hurt your mother."

Trunks just looked at her, and though his expression was calm his eyes smouldered with warning.  "Don't say that," he snarled, his childish voice sounding menacing despite its high-pitched tone.  "You saw what happens when somebody hurts Mama."

"Someone would just shoot you," Blade argued back, "Then what would you accomplish?"

"Get me really mad and you won't get time to shoot me," Trunks wrapped his arms around Bulma's neck protectively.  "Just try it.  I dare you."

Blade's face contorted with anger, as she realized she was fighting with a six-year-old — and losing, to boot.  "Shut _up_, brat!" she shouted, and swung the butt of her rifle at his head in an attempt to knock him out for the time being.

Bulma saw this coming, and without thinking she swerved her body to the side, intending to get Trunks out of harm's way.  She miscalculated, however, and the weapon slammed full force into her upper arm.  Feeling the bones snap beneath the blow, Bulma cried out in pain and dropped Trunks, sinking to her knees and clutching her left arm.  Tears streamed down her face as her arm throbbed, feeling as though someone had set it on fire.

"Mama!" Trunks yelled, picking himself up off the ground and scrambling to her side.  "What happened?"

"I think my arm is broken," Bulma gritted.  "No, I _know_ it's broken.  No, Trunks, don't kill anybody," she added hastily as rage transformed the boy's features into a mask of anger.  "I'll be fine.  I just need the bones to be set, that's all.  Come on, kiddo, let's go see the General . . . but you're gonna' have to walk now."

"That's okay," Trunks grabbed her good hand and started walking, shooting her concerned glances.  He looked up at Blade, and Bulma saw an expression on his face that she had seen on Vegeta's a few times.  "Mean Lady, you're a —" what followed next was a word unfit for print.

Bulma's eyes widened as Blade hissed in outrage, and she clunked Trunks lightly on the head.  "Trunks!" Bulma scolded, "Where did you hear that?"

Trunks' anger disappeared, and he grinned, one hand behind his head in a comically confused gesture.  "From you.  You call Papa that sometimes, remember?" he ducked his head sheepishly.  "Or was I not supposed to listen to that?"

Bulma just laughed, the humour of the situation taking her mind off the pain for a few seconds.  Blade, on the other hand, was seething, and Bulma knew it was only the General's warning that she and Trunks were to be delivered alive that kept the volatile woman from striking them down.  "Don't say that word again, okay?" Bulma chuckled.  "Once you know what it means, then you're allowed to say it."

"What does it mean?"

"Oho-o-o no, you're not getting off _that_ easily!"

"Aww . . . Papa would tell me."

"Daddy has a dirtier mouth than _I_ do, dear boy.  That doesn't count."

Trunks just giggled.  "How come you can't wash Papa's mouth out with soap like you do mine?"

Bulma had to laugh at that image.  "I've got my own ways of shutting him up.  I don't need soap."

Trunks sang gleefully, "Mama and Papa, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-IC" 

  


"Trunks!" but the rest of Bulma's indignant squeal was broken off as she winced in pain, holding her good arm to her chest and trying not to let Trunks see how much it hurt. It only needed one well-placed bullet and BANG! — no more Trunks.  Clenching her teeth, Bulma managed to speak without the tone of her voice escalating as the pain increased.  "Trunks, leave Mommy and Daddy's personal lives alone, okay?  It isn't any of your business."

"Okay.  But you like it," Trunks' little face had a wicked grin on it, one that Vegeta got sometimes when no one else was around.  "I know you do."

"I don't believe you," Bulma laughed incredulously, "You're six!  You're not supposed to know about stuff like this."

"With you and Papa, it's hard not to," Trunks countered wryly.

Blade glared at them.  "Shut up, you two.  We're here."

The light-hearted mood was doused as quickly as a bucket of water would put out a candle.  Bulma gripped Trunks' hand tightly, glad that she had been able to get her son's mind off their dire predicament for a few minutes.  "Let's hope this is short," she muttered, "I don't know how long I can keep my temper."

They were brought into a large room, again largely military in appearance, with a long aisle running down the middle, leading up to a high dais.  Bulma could see a man standing on the platform at the far end of the room, but she couldn't see any details of him.  

"Leave us, everyone," the man's voice boomed across the room.  In orderly precision, each soldier turned and left the room.  Blade was the last to go, but though she hesitated, she finally exited, as well — glaring at Bulma and Trunks the whole time.

Once everyone had gone, the man beckoned them forward.  "Come here," his tone was genial, but surrounded by a layer of steel that suggested that the polite "request" was also an order.

Bulma all but ran up the aisle, her customary cowardice in the face of enemies forgotten in her anger at being taken away from her home.  She was almost at the dais when the man held up a hand, indicating she was to come no further.  

He was tall, about Goku's height, with blonde hair cropped close in military style.  He wore an olive-grey uniform like the rest of his subordinates, but his ensemble included a jacket and a flat-topped hat, the style of which Bulma hadn't seen on any of the other officers.  It was strange, but something about seeing all of the outfit together jogged something in her memory.  Something about the — 

All at once, Bulma stopped caring as the pain, rage, and frustration welled up inside her.  "All right," she yelled, making Trunks jump.  "What is going on?  What is it that you wanted my dad and me to do for you, because whatever it is, you lost your chance when my parents died."

"Shut up!" the man snarled, and Bulma wondered for a second whether that phrase was mandatory in these people's vocabularies.  "I have neither the time, nor the desire, to stand here and listen to you babble about your own petty problems."

"Petty?!"  Bulma's voice cracked in disbelief.  "My parents were killed by your men, and you call that _petty_?"

Trunks tugged on her hand.  "Mama!" he whispered urgently, "Be quiet!  It's not Papa — this man will hurt you."

A small growl rose from Bulma's throat, but she knew her son had a point.  She argued with Vegeta like this all the time, and he was fifty million times stronger than this man could ever be, but there was one crucial difference; on no occasion would Vegeta even _consider_ causing her even the least amount of bodily harm.  This man had no such inhibitions.   "Fine.  Sorry."

"_If_ I may continue," the man sent her an annoyed glare.  "I am General Bouryoku.  Briefs-san, you have been brought here because my organization needs you to do something for us.  I am, you see, the leader of an army."

"Toldja'," Trunks let out a small grin of triumph.  "I knew this was an army place."

Bulma frowned.  "An army?  But you must have incredible resources to come up with so much equipment!  Which group are you?"

  


The man stabbed a finger at the breast pocket of his jacket, and it was there that Bulma saw the insignia.  A red stripe, forked at both ends, with the letters "R R" in white — except that in this insignia, a large "N" was placed between the R's.  "The Red Ribbon Army!" Bulma gasped.

"_Neo_ Red Ribbon Army," Bouryoku corrected her coldly, with the air of one who is proud of his position and not afraid to show it.  "Otherwise, you are correct."

Bulma found herself gripping Trunks' hand even tighter, until the little boy squirmed his fingers and tried to pull away.  "But . . . Gero is dead!  He's been dead for six years now!  And the Army was disbanded long ago."

"What has that got to do with anything?" Bouryoku snapped.  "He was an old man, and such people can only see so far. His vision was immaterial, his goals ridiculous.  Our ideals are not his; hence the 'Neo'," ice-blue eyes narrowed, and he clasped his hands behind his back, feet together in a military stance.  "No matter.  Our goals are not your concern."

"What is, then?"  Bulma stared up at the General, trying to keep her voice level, and if possible, edged with haughtiness and bravado.  Unfortunately, her heart pounded in her chest so rapidly that Bulma was sure Bouryoku would be able to hear the beats, her chest tightened as she struggled to keep her breathing slow and regular, and her knees felt weak.  She was the prisoner, and Bouryoku had the upper hand.  No, scratch that; he had _all_ the hands.  There was nothing she could do against him.

Bouryoku was still eyeing her the way Bulma would have looked at a representative of a company Capsule Corp. was about to take over.  "You are to build weapons.  I know your skills as an inventor — you and your father's accomplishment of the Hoi Poi capsules when you were a teenager revolutionized this entire planet.  I am using those skills."

The General's lip curled up in a feral sneer, and he stared down at her.  It was very effective, and not a little intimidating.  "You're going to make biological weapons for my Army.  Weapons that will reduce a person's energy level to one."

Trunks made a noise that sounded like a kicked puppy, and it was obvious he knew what that would feel like.  _Must be the type of gun that Entare-san shot Trunks with yesterday,_ Bulma realized.  "Why would you need weapons like those?" Bulma frowned, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Normal guns would be more than enough for any ordinC" her voice trailed off as she looked at Trunks.  She thought of Son, who had defeated the original Red Ribbon Army when he had been a boy.  She thought of Yamucha, Kuririn, Piccolo, Gohan, Vegeta . . .

Bulma sucked in her breath sharply.  "You can't be serious!" she expostulated, eyes wide.  "You can't expect me to make something like that.  I know what that would do to my friends!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bouryoku raised an eyebrow, exacting an air of casual indifference.  "Nevertheless, you _will_ make these weapons.  We have a limited amount of them ourselves, but not enough."

"No!" Bulma staggered a few steps backward, intending on putting as much space between herself and the man without making it seem like she was afraid.  "I already told you, I'm not doing anything for you."

Bouryoku pulled his sidearm from its holster, and he pointed it at little Trunks.  "This is one of the few functional bio-weapons we have, but it still has a substantial amount of power left," one thumb moved a small switch back, almost lazily, flicking off the safety.  "Maybe you don't believe me?"

All pretense of defiance drained out of her then, and Bulma hung her head in defeat.  Her friends were one thing — they could take care of themselves — but Trunks?  No.  She couldn't do that.  Not to her son.  "All right.  I'll make them."

"I knew you would agree to our proposition," Bouryoku smiled, but the expression resembled a leering demon more than anything else, in Bulma's mind.  "And, of course, don't even think about stalling to give your husband time to find you.  I will expect a good portion of work done per day — otherwise, you will not be allowed to see your son."

"What?!" Bulma shook her head, the incredulity returning.  She put a protective arm around Trunks' shoulders, drawing him close to her.  For once, Trunks didn't make a face and pull away, and she knew he was frightened of these soldiers and their bio-weapons.  "You can't take him away from me!"

"No one said I was going to," Bouryoku retorted.  "I said, _if_ you don't hand in your quota at the end of the day.  Now go," he hit a button on the side of his dais, signalling his guards outside the room, and called, "Blade!" 

  


The response was immediate; at the other end of the long room, the door slid open and Blade stepped through, weapon at the ready.  When she saw nothing was amiss, the soldier snapped to attention, weapon against her shoulder, one hand to her forehead.  Bulma thought she saw disappointment tighten the lines of Blade's face.

"Take them to the mess hall and get them something to eat," Bouryoku ordered, then glanced at Bulma.  "Remember," he added in a low, warning tone.  "Don't cross me.  I don't like stooping to violence upon children, but if it's necessary, I'm not above it."

Bulma was about to retort, but she remembered Entare's words of caution, and kept her mouth shut.

Wordlessly, Blade flanked Bulma and Trunks, leading them out of the room.

******

Hmmm . . . well, maybe things aren't explained quite as well as Bulma wanted them, hn? The General certainly has Bulma in a bit of a choke-hold, though, doesn't he! 

Next chapter: a sort of interlude. Vegeta and Yamucha take the night to rest, and Vegeta spends most of his time tormenting himself or thinking about Bulma ...... 


	4. Nightly Musings

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT do not belong to me. I make no money off these stories, and even if I could, they are nowhere near up to Toriyama's calibre so I wouldn't bother anyhow. 

A/N: Well, well, this has been a long time in coming, hasn't it? It's been almost a month! Well, exams are over and done with and a new semester is just beginning, so I'm back. I know you allll missed me (snickers...) 

This isn't an action chapter, so sorry if you wanted one. This is one of my infamous "interlude" chapters, where I take the time to back off from the action of the story and focus on the characters for a little while. This focuses primarily on Vegeta, but Bulma is in it, as well. I hope you enjoy, and I definitely hope it was worth the 3-week-long wait!   
  


Damsel in Distress?  Not Likely!

**Chapter Four: Nightly Musings**

"I don't get it . . . I don't know why we can't sense them," Yamucha ran a hand through his short black hair in frustration, curling his fingers around the coarse strands and yanking them sharply.  "We should be able to."

"Thank you for that comment," the sarcasm in Vegeta's voice was so thick it could almost have been cut with a knife.  "I realized that already.  But knowing it doesn't help the situation."

Yamucha ignored the cynicism, attributing it to worry on Vegeta's part.  He was sitting on the forest floor with his back against a tree, wincing as his tired muscles protested from too much flying with too little practice.  He and Vegeta had been searching all night and right through till midnight the day after, with no success.  No sign of Bulma or Trunks — and not even a glimmer of their life energy anywhere.

Vegeta blew out his breath in an explosive sigh of frustration as he tossed another stick onto the already-roaring campfire in front of him.  He hadn't needed to rest or even wanted to, but flying around aimlessly hadn't been accomplishing anything.  It was maddening — no, it was torture — to not have any clue as to the whereabouts of Trunks or Bulma.  Even their ki had seemed to have disappeared.  

Earlier Yamucha had suggested gently, with tears in his eyes, that perhaps Bulma and Trunks had been killed . . . and his reward for that comment had been a punch in the face that would have caved in his skull had he not seen it coming.  Now, thinking back to that conversation, Vegeta's hands balled into fists and his whole body shook.  They couldn't be dead.  They _couldn't_!  He would know.

"Vegeta?"

"_What_?!" Vegeta barked, causing the former warrior to jump.

"Did you ever think that maybe they're off-planet?"

Vegeta's eyebrows pulled together in an incredulous scowl.  "What are you talking about?  Do all humans come up with such ridiculous notions, or just you?"

"Just listen," Yamucha insisted.  "Think it through before you instantly disregard the possibility.  How do you know, for sure, that Bulma and Trunks are still on Chikyuu?"

This new piece of speculation sank into Vegeta's brain slowly, and it trickled through his body like ice water in his veins..  After a few seconds, however, Vegeta discarded the notion with an inner sigh of relief.  "No.  You're wrong."

Yamucha's first instinct was to dismiss Vegeta's curt statement as hopeful thinking, but he knew that the Saiyajin Prince was a rational person, rarely prone to making decisions without a reason.  Unless, of course, it had to do with battle.  "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Vegeta shot Yamucha his famous Look, the one that made the receiver feel like he were a puddle of quivering jelly.  Fortunately for Yamucha, he had been given the Look so many times that he had almost built up an immunity, and the only effect was a mild weakening of the knees.  "I saw the bodies of the soldiers.  They were all human.  Their weapons were of pitiful Chikyuujin design, as well."

"So?" if this was leading up to another of Vegeta's Saiyajin-supremacy speeches . . .

  


"_So_," Vegeta repeated him mockingly, "No self-respecting species would ever hire humans as assassins.  _Therefore_," he continued forcefully, when Yamucha drew himself up in indignance, "This operation had to have been engineered and carried out completely by humans.  Since your species hasn't discovered space travel, except for the woman's father, it wouldn't make any sense to assume that the woman and the brat were taken off-planet."

Yamucha scratched his head, thinking it through.  As much as his pride hated to admit it, Vegeta's logic was sound and Yamucha could find no fault with it.  "Yeah, I think you're right.  Hunh!"

"Of course I am!"  Vegeta sniffed, glaring at Yamucha.  "Why does everyone assume all Saiyajins are idiots?  Just because Kakarotto couldn't find his own backside with both hands and a ki blast doesn't mean that I'm intellectually deprived, also.  Honestly!"

The human winced, knowing it was true.  Given Goku's innocent, childlike demeanor, it was easy to forget that he did actually possess a fair amount of intelligence — and this assumption was naturally passed on with regards to Vegeta.  "I'm sorry."

"You and everyone else on this planet," Vegeta snarled, turning away abruptly and staring moodily into the fire once more.  "I wish people would stop looking at me bugeyed any time I make a comment that is semi-intelligent.  And you say _my_ species is racist!"

"I said I was sorry," Yamucha's expression was pained.  "What else do you want?"

Vegeta looked at him askance, and Yamucha couldn't place the mood that touched his aristocratic features.  After a few seconds, Vegeta shook himself, turning his gaze back to the dancing flames.  "I want you to shut up."

There was a pause, and Vegeta wondered for a second if Yamucha was really taking his retort seriously.  He hadn't actually thought it would work, since Yamucha knew Vegeta wouldn't hurt him — Bulma would throw a fit if anything happened to her ex-boyfriend — but Vegeta wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth if he had.  After a few minutes, though, Yamucha spoke up, again in that contemplative tone of voice.

"Why don't we try asking Dende tomorrow?" Yamucha suggested, covering his mouth with one hand to hide a yawn.  He'd taken enough verbal jabs from Vegeta without one about his lack of ability to go two nights without sleep.

Vegeta just gave him a look like he was insane.  "Dende?  What would that half-pint-Piccolo-wannabe know?"

"Hey, lay off," Yamucha frowned, "Dende is Chikyuu's guardian.  He's done a pretty good job so far."

_Not good enough this time,_ Vegeta thought bitterly, but he knew it hadn't been the little Namekusejin's fault.  If anyone was to blame, it was himself, for leaving the woman and their son alone in the house with only the robots as security.  Vegeta also was aware, however, that no answer lay in pointing fingers, even at himself.  What Trunks and Bulma needed now was action, not blame.

"All right, maybe the green kid has _some_ idea what's going on," Vegeta admitted grudgingly, and he got to his feet.  "Let's go.  Now."

Yamucha looked at him, a weary expression on the human's weary face.  "Vegeta . . . can't we wait until morning?  You've got to remember I'm just human, you know — I don't have your stamina."

Vegeta fixed his unwilling partner with a cold stare that caused him to fidget nervously.  "Listen, if you can't handle it, go home.  I'm going to find them, with or without you.  I can't allow this insult to my pride to continue any longer."

"Your _pride_?" Yamucha repeated, and despite the fact that Vegeta was far stronger than he, and of a superior race, he sounded absolutely disgusted.  "I hope you didn't mean that."

AOf course I did!  For a Crown Prince of the Saiyajin race to have his son kidnapped from his home by a group of humans is an inexcusable insult.  I must correct the error before the word is spread that I cannot defend my home from even your pathetic species."

  


Yamucha stared hard at Vegeta, and for the first time that Vegeta could remember, he felt uncomfortable beneath another man's scrutiny.  Biting back the urge to rap out a sharp "WHAT?" Vegeta just glared, not breaking the human's gaze.  After some time, Yamucha leaned back against the tree and put his hands behind his head in a lazy gesture, a small, knowing smile creasing his features.  "I thought so."

"You can think?" Vegeta shot back.  "Hmph.  I guess there _are_ some things I don't know."

Yamucha ignored him, which was infuriating enough in itself, but what was worse was the satisfied smirk on his face.  "You're worried about her, Vegeta.  Admit it."

Vegeta bristled.  He didn't want this human guessing at his feelings — even Bulma was unsure of them half the time, so how could Yamucha profess to know anything?  "Why should I admit it when it isn't true?" he snapped.

"Vegeta . . ." Yamucha sighed patiently, like he was discussing a rule with a preschool-aged child.  "I'm not going to make fun of you.  I know perfectly well that you care about Bulma, and you love her, even if you don't admit it to yourself.  Why can't you just say it?"

"You're wasting your time," Vegeta snarled, "If you're expecting me to suddenly act all 'buddy-buddy' with you and 'spill my heart' or some such nonsense, just forget it.  If you want to have a man-to-man bonding session with a lovesick idiot, talk to Kuririn about his tin can of a wife.  I'm sure he'd be grateful to oblige, but you're an imbecile if you think I have anything in common with him, or that I share his weak emotions." 

Yamucha just shook his head, and there was hurt in his eyes — but it didn't look like it was for himself.  "I sure hope for her sake Bulma never hears you say that," he murmured quietly.

"Don't tell me how I should treat my woman!" Vegeta snapped, and he leaned abruptly away from the fire.  The heat from the blaze was making his cheeks turn red — he could feel the colour rising to them.  He scowled at Yamucha, who, for once, wasn't grinning, or laughing, or, on the flip side, giving him that disapproving frown.  This time, the blasted human was merely _looking_, with an expression that was somewhere between sympathy and understanding.  It was a discomfiting stare, one that made Vegeta feel that Yamucha could see inside his mind and knew what he was really thinking.

Vegeta growled, and he jumped to his feet and flew into the air, blasting through the canopy.  "Vegeta!" Yamucha called after him, but the Saiyajin paid him no heed.  Vegeta flew until he was well past the forest, until he was high enough that it felt like he was floating right amongst the stars.  Releasing a scream of outrage, frustration, and who knew how many other emotions, Vegeta slammed his fists against the air and let out a string of profanity.

_I know perfectly well that you care about Bulma, and you love her, even if you don't admit it to yourself._

"I do not!" Vegeta roared to the heavens, but the stars just blinked back at him without giving any answers.

Why did everyone question him about his feelings for Bulma?  They had had a son together and they were bonded through the boy — Bulma was his mate, and she understood Vegeta better than anyone else in the whole accursed galaxy did, but that was that.  Why did humans have to bring love into it?  Love complicated everything!

Vegeta was fond of Bulma — _very_ fond — he had been for a couple of years now, and he was aware she knew that.  Neither Vegeta nor Bulma were very good with expressing their feelings in a verbal manner, and he didn't think either of them tried to evaluate how they felt about each other.  Bulma had been rather stuck on that at first, always trying to get Vegeta to be the perfect, fairy-tale prince, but after a while she stopped and accepted him for the way he was.  Vegeta didn't think it mattered anyway.  Bulma needed him, they both knew it — nothing else was necessary.

Funnily enough, Vegeta didn't mind being needed like that.  It was a desire he hadn't ever experienced except from her, and he couldn't truly say that it was an unwelcome one.  And what was even odder, perhaps, was the fact that Vegeta needed Bulma, too.  He felt the need to protect just as strongly as she wanted to be protected — wanted to be understood for who he was, just as she did.  It was not the most tender of relationships, but it was certainly one of the most unique.

  


But people ruined it when they tried to analyze Vegeta's feelings.  When they tried to file his emotions into their stupid, human categories.  Love, affection, tenderness, romance . . . all those words meant nothing to Vegeta.  What was more, he didn't _care_ about what they meant.  While others seemed to take this as a sign that Vegeta felt nothing for Bulma, he knew they were wrong.  What this really signified was that he didn't see the necessity to put a name to his feelings — didn't need to stick them into slots, to cheapen them by slapping a label on them.

Bulma understood.

"Vegeta!"

Vegeta blinked, startled.  Yamucha flew up from the trees to hover in the air next to him, and his face was filled with apology.  "I'm sorry, Vegeta.  It's not my place to argue with you about Bulma.  Can you forgive me?"

Vegeta just grunted, barely acknowledging that he had even heard the statement, and he pointedly ignored the human.  Without even realizing it, Vegeta stretched out his senses, straining to pick up even a glimmer of Bulma's life energy.  Like the last time — like the last hundred times — it was in vain.  Vegeta's lip curled into a self-belittling sneer, and he bit back a curse. 

_Where are you, woman?_ he demanded silently.

A hand fell on Vegeta's shoulder, and he turned to glower at Yamucha.  The human removed his hand, and he smiled a little.  "We'll get her back," Yamucha tried to reassure him.  "You don't have to worry."

Vegeta looked at him for a second, meeting the human's coal-black stare, then he returned his gaze to the stars.  "Didn't you want to sleep, human?" he asked gruffly.

Yamucha's mouth curved upward in a small grin, and he nodded.  "Yeah, I did.  Sorry to bug you."

Long after Yamucha fell asleep, his snores carrying straight up through the forest to Vegeta's sensitive hearing, the Saiyajin remained hovering, searching for a glimpse of something that he simply could not find.

_I'll find you.  I don't care how long it takes; I will find you.  Even if I have to tear this entire planet to pieces to do it . . ._

******

_Starlight flooded the dark bedroom, casting eerie, silver light upon a slumbering figure who lay in bed, unaware that she was being watched.  The light also fell upon the chiselled features of the man who stood next to the bed, saying nothing._

_The usual scowl was absent from Vegeta's features as he regarded Bulma's sleeping form, and he held one hand in front of him, fist clenched protectively around something.  It had been a few days since the Cell Games, and he and Bulma hadn't conversed much._

_A low sigh escaped Vegeta's throat, and he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, springs squeaking softly, where he continued to watch Bulma.  He reached out to touch her hair, then growled lightly and pulled his hand back, exhaling with a vicious curse.  Even when she slept, the woman had a power over him._

_Bulma muttered in her sleep, then she unconsciously rolled over to what would have been Vegeta's side of the bed, had he been there.  When she found it empty, a frown crossed Bulma's face and she began stirring restlessly, tossing and turning as though she was in the grip of a nightmare._

_  
_

_Vegeta glanced at his hand, then at Bulma, then decisiveness seized him and he grasped Bulma's wrist.  Opening her fist, Vegeta shoved the gold chain he had been holding into Bulma's palm and closed her fingers over it.  Bulma sighed and pulled her hand to her chest, bringing the necklace close to her heart._

_Vegeta shook his head and stood, preparing to leave.  Before he reached the door, however, a sleepy voice jolted him to a stop.  "Vegeta?"_

_He paused, shoulders tensed.  "What?"_

_A rustling of blankets sounded as Bulma sat up, and Vegeta turned around.   Bulma had propped herself up against the headboard and was staring at the necklace in her hand, a mixture of bewilderment and hope tinging her features.  "What's this for?"_

_The Saiyajin bit back a curse; he had hoped to leave the gift and leave before the woman woke up.  Now, he had to bite the proverbial bullet.  "It's . . . it's because . . ."Vegeta glowered, and he folded his arms defensively.  "It's to apologize," Bulma's eyes widened, but she didn't say anything, and he continued.  "It's because I'm sorry I left you, and our son.  I . . ." the glare softened, and something akin to gentleness pervaded his expression.  "I won't leave you again."_

_Bulma still did not speak, as she was staring at the necklace like it had suddenly sprouted wings and was going to fly away.  Vegeta frowned.  "Don't you —" he paused, annoyed at his own weakness, but knowing Bulma had that effect on him no matter how hard he tried to deny it.  "Don't you want it?"  If Bulma rejected the gift, she was also rejecting Vegeta's apology, and his offer to return to her._

_A short silence ensued, during which Vegeta was fully prepared to leave, then Bulma leapt up from the bed and ran toward him.  Flinging her arms around his neck, Bulma kissed him full on the mouth with such force that it left the Saiyajin speechless — and not a little breathless, as well.  She hadn't kissed him like that since before Trunks' birth.  "Thank you!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Vegeta, this means just as much to me as . . . as . . . as ChiChi's wedding ring does to her!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!"_

_Vegeta attempted to speak, but Bulma didn't allow that as she began to kiss him energetically, short, excited kisses that left Vegeta no time to respond.  "Thank you," Bulma cried, "Vegeta, I love you so much" — she kissed him again — "You don't have to apologize for anything" — and again — "I'm sorry I ever got mad at you" — and again._

_"Woman!" Vegeta yelled finally, catching her face and cupping it in both his hands.  "What are you doing?  If you're going to kiss me" — a knowing smirk crossed his expression and was matched by one of Bulma's — "Then do it right!" leaning in close, Vegeta pulled Bulma toward him, drawing her in for a deep, heart-stopping kiss._

_"Stay with me," Bulma murmured when they paused for breath, "Come back again."_

_Wordlessly, Vegeta took Bulma in his arms and carried her to the bed, where he stretched out with her beside him.  Bulma lay her head on his chest and Vegeta encircled her in his arms, drawing the blankets up over the two of them.  "Welcome back," Bulma whispered drowsily.  Vegeta said nothing, and he kissed the top of her head before the both of them fell asleep, together again for the first time in months._

_Bulma still clutched the necklace in her hand._

Vegeta sat up, his face soaked with sweat, as the dream faded, and he cursed softly.  Why did memories of Bulma have to plague him now, when he did not want emotions to cloud his judgement and impede his action?  Why, when he tried to formulate a plan to find her, could he only think of the scent of her hair, or the softness of her skin?  Vegeta snarled, but didn't try to push the memories away.  In Bulma's absence, they were all he had of her.

He glanced up at the sky and saw that it was a few hours yet until morning, so he crossed his arms and resettled his back against the tree, trying to snatch a bit of sleep.

  


_Feh_, he thought, _I'm turning into one of those soft-hearted humans!  Wouldn't the woman laugh if she knew I was dreaming about her . . ._

******

The lights were off and the room was silent as Bulma lay awake in bed, thinking.  Trunks had long fallen asleep, despite his earlier vow to stay awake all night to make sure her arm didn't hurt, and Bulma smiled at him.  The little boy was slumbering next to her, having refused to sleep in the bed across the room that had been reserved for him, and Bulma tousled his hair gently, not wanting to wake him.

Her arm had been set that afternoon, and Entare-san had given Bulma a shot of painkillers to keep the hurt bearable.  Bulma still wasn't too comfortable accepting medicine from the organization that had killed her parents, but the pain was incapacitating otherwise, and she knew they wouldn't resort to such low methods as poisoning her.  They needed her, at least until she finished creating the weapons.

Bulma frowned at the ceiling, as though by glaring at it she could make her captors feel guilty.  She had no intention of creating weapons that had the potential to hurt her friends, but at the same time, she wasn't about to let harm come to her son.  It was embarrassing to be caught in such a paralyzing situation, and it made Bulma wonder what Vegeta would do were he in her position.

She snorted.  Vegeta would blast the place to pieces, bio-weapons or no, before the soldiers even had a chance to get their hands halfway to their holsters.  He'd never be stuck in a circumstance like this.  It was one of the perks of being the strongest fighter on the planet.

"Or would he?" Bulma murmured to herself, propping her head on one hand and looking about the darkened room.  "If someone threatened me and Trunks, and there was no way he could do anything to stop them, would he risk losing us to save his pride?"

Bulma didn't think so.  She and Vegeta never talked about their relationship, but inside, Bulma knew Vegeta would never want to see her come to harm.

She laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the ceiling again, wishing the room had a window, but her quarters were in the heart of the building.  Bulma had always sought comfort in the stars, ever since her childhood, and she longed for a window to look through.  If she could only see the sky, it would make her predicament a little more bearable.

For somehow, Bulma knew Vegeta would be looking up at the same stars.  

_Something brought Bulma out of sleep, and she instinctively looked over at Vegeta's side of the bed, knowing it would be empty.  He had been distracted and edgy all day, and whenever he got depressed, he stood on the balcony all night, staring out at the stars._

_Bulma shook her head and climbed out of bed, taking her dressing gown from the bedpost and donning it hastily.  She could see the filmy curtains blowing in the nighttime breeze, the doors to the balcony flung wide open.  "Vegeta?" Bulma called softly, moving toward the balcony.  "How long have you been out there?"_

_"Go back to bed, woman," Vegeta's gruff voice was borne back to her on the wind.  "It's cold out."_

_"I've got my housecoat on," she came out onto the balcony and saw Vegeta leaning against the railing, arms crossed and face pensive.  The muscle shirt and sweat pants he wore waved gently in the breeze, as did his hair.  "What's the matter?"_

_"Nothing," he replied evasively, but Bulma knew him far better than that.  Even before they had gotten 'together', Bulma had always been able to tell when Vegeta was lying._

_  
_

_"Vegeta," she chided him, and scooted up onto the railing, perched precariously on the thin, metal rail so she was facing him.  "Don't lie to me."_

_Vegeta's jaw muscles tightened, and he grabbed her arm.  "Don't sit on that.  You could fall off."_

_Bulma smiled crookedly and detached her arm from his grasp.  "Don't be silly.  You'd catch me before I fell, wouldn't you?" he snorted, and she grinned in triumph.  "Enough playing.  Tell me what the matter is.  Please."_

_He stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face, then he sighed in defeat.  "I'm feeling closed in.  This planet, it's . . . it's so small and confined.  I feel like I'm trapped here, getting bombarded with your culture, your ways, your beliefs, your morals . . . it's as though, if I stay here much longer, I'll somehow become human.  And that isn't what I want."_

_Bulma felt a little stung, but she understood the root of Vegeta's problem.  "That's why you look at the stars, then," she guessed, swinging around on the railing to look out at the sky, ignoring Vegeta's worried glance and the movement of his hand as he fought not to reach out and catch hold of her.  "You want to leave . . . but you can't."_

_"You're correct," Vegeta scowled.  "Before, when I felt stifled, I could leave for space for a few months.  It gave me the chance to be alone, to feel _myself_ again.  But things are different now.  I can't just abandon you like that.  That might be a weakness, I don't know, but it's true nonetheless."_

_"I'm sorry," Bulma leaned until her back came in contact with Vegeta's chest.  He remained immobile, so Bulma reached back and took hold of Vegeta's hands.  He took the hint and stepped close to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.  "I don't mean to make you feel trapped."_

_"It's not you!" he growled.  "It's this blasted _planet_!  I feel like such an alien when I'm here.  The only time I feel at home is when I'm out in the stars."_

_Bulma raised a hand, indicating the glittering sky above them.  "But they're beautiful to look at just from the ground.  Doesn't it help you when you stargaze from here?"_

_"No.  Once you have been up in space, you can never look at the stars the same way again.  You've flown a spacecraft, woman, don't you know what I mean?"_

_She shook her head.  "I'm afraid not.  I was so busy with trying to find Namekusei that I didn't bother looking out the windows.  Sorry."_

_Nothing was said for a moment, then Vegeta gave a short nod.  "Come with me," without giving Bulma a chance to respond, Vegeta flew off the balcony and down to the Capsule ship, parked on the front lawn.  "We're going up into space."_

_"Now?" Bulma glanced at him quizzically.  "Are you sure?  But . . . it's such a small ship, will there be room?  Why don't you wait and ask Dad to build you a bigger one?"_

_He fixed her with a steely-eyed stare, full of questions.  "Are you afraid to be close to me, woman?  If so, I'll take you back right now."_

_Bulma met his gaze, and she smiled.  "No, never mind.  We can improvise."_

_Vegeta smirked triumphantly, and he punched the access code to the small ship, waiting as the door hissed open.  He sat in the control chair, Bulma on his lap, and tapped in the commands to take the craft up into orbit.  Once the preflight checks had been made, the spaceship roared and took off into the air.  "Are you too cramped?" Vegeta asked as the ship flew up toward the upper atmosphere._

_  
_

_"Nope," Bulma snuggled up to him, enjoying the feel of his arms around her.  It was rare that Vegeta was so open with her._

_They reached space in a matter of minutes, and Vegeta reached forward and hit a small, blue button on the console.  "I told your father I disliked feeling enclosed," he explained as a low whine filled the cockpit, "So he installed this for me.  I used to come up and sit in orbit for hours."_

_As Bulma watched, the ceiling and walls of the capsule seemed to disappear as the thick metal retracted into a panel at the bottom.  Beneath it was clear glass, allowing for almost complete vision of the space around the ship._

_Bulma sucked in her breath sharply as the glory of the stars threatened to overwhelm her.  Ahead of them, shimmering like a jewel, was Chikyuu, blue, green, and white, more beautiful than it could ever be on the ground.  All around, the stars shone far brighter than Bulma had ever seen, unhindered by Chikyuu's atmosphere, or pollution, or lighting, or any of the factors that dimmed their beauty from the planet's surface.  Bulma's breath shortened, and she had to gasp for air._

_"See?" Vegeta's voice was low, his breath warm in her ear.  "I told you it was different from space.  I've spent years and years here, flying between purging missions and whatnot.  Space is the only place where I feel I belong."_

_"I can see why," Bulma nodded, still breathless.  "It's gorgeous!"_

_Vegeta suddenly stiffened, like he was embarrassed to be showing such a secret part of his inner self to her, and he leaned over, preparing to key in the reentry sequence.  Bulma caught his wrist.  "Don't.  Let's stay a while longer."_

_He paused, uncertain.  "You'll get stiff."_

_"That's what painkillers are for," Bulma argued.  "Please.  It's beautiful up here, and you need to get away from Chikyuu.  You said so.  Let's wait, at least until morning.  I bet sunrise is absolutely breathtaking from up here."_

_"It is," he admitted grudgingly, and he shifted a little in the chair to give them both a bit more room.  "But don't complain about sore muscles in the morning."_

_Bulma chuckled, and she curled up against him.  "I won't.  Make sure you wake me up for sunrise, all right?"_

_"Fine," Vegeta grunted, but his arms tightened protectively around her and without looking, Bulma knew he was smiling.  "Good night, woman."_

_"Good night, Vegeta.  And you know, any time you need to come up here for a while, you can," Bulma looked up at him, seeing surprise run about his face unchecked before he caught it.  "After seeing this myself, I don't blame you for taking off anymore.  As long as you tell me when you're leaving and you don't stay away _too_ long, I don't think I'd mind."_

_Vegeta said nothing, but he lifted a hand to run his fingers down her cheek once, and this was as good a thank you as any._

Bulma put a hand to her cheek to wipe away the tears that had the audacity to leave her eyes.  More than she cared to admit, she missed Vegeta.  She missed his protection, whether she needed it or not; missed waking up in the morning and finding herself in his arms.  She even missed arguing with him.

"I'm going to find a way out of here," she hissed in determination.  "I'm not waiting for him to find me.  I'll think of  a way to do it myself, and I'll get out of here.  I won't just sit around and wait to be rescued . . . I'm no typical damsel in distress.  I'll be back, Vegeta.  I promise you that!"

******

*grins* I like these kind of chapters - it's interesting to see how each character reacts to the situation s/he is placed in. I don't know when the next chapter will be out, because I've hit a bit of a snag, but it shouldn't be too long. 

Next time: Bulma begins her programming . . . as well as a little illicit hacking into the system. Why not, right? She discovers something rather interesting .... (and the answer to Chibi Tenshi Senchi's question in chapter three ...) 


	5. New Developments

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT do not belong to me. I wouldn't be bothering with scholarship applications and OSAP (student loans) if they did . . . _ 

A/N: I know, I know. Wa-a-ay late . . . but I'm not going to reel off a list of excuses. Simply: I, unfortunately, have a life. While I would love to devote my time solely to writing fanfiction, I cannot do so. I'm sure most people understand how it is -- as for those of you who don't, well, I'm sorry, but there's no way out of it. 

Again, no action in this chapter . . . Vegeta visits Dende to discern Bulma and Trunks' whereabouts -- will the "pocket-sized Piccolo" be able to shed any light on the situation? Meanwhile, Bulma begins her programming (ie. hacking into the NRR computer system) and discovers something rather surprising . . .   
  


Damsel in Distress?  Not Likely!

**Chapter Five: New Developments**

Trunks yawned widely, flailing his little arms about as he tried not to wake up, but soon he relinquished the battle and sat up, rubbing his eyes.  He glanced beside him and saw that his mother wasn't there, that in her place were only rumpled bedclothes, and he looked around in alarm.

"I'm over here, Trunks," Mama called from across the room, and Trunks breathed a sigh of relief and scooted off the bed, padding over to her in his pajamas.  "I was just working early."

"Oh, great," Trunks snickered.  "Even when you're _not_ in your lab you work alla' time.  Papa would hate that."

"Mm-hmm," Mama nodded absently.  She was still in her pajamas with a housecoat quickly pulled on over top, seated cross-legged on the floor with a notebook and pen in front of her.  Trunks edged beside her and peered over her shoulder, but all he could discern were a bunch of inarticulate scribbles and some sketchy drawings, messy since she was writing with her wrong hand.  He looked at her sharply.

"You're actually gonna' build the bad stuff?" his eyes bugged incredulously.  "Isn't that . . . um . . . isn't that what the bad people want you to do?"

Mama winced and flicked her eyes away, but Trunks recognized the expression on her face — the one that she got whenever presented with a challenge.  "It's actually quite fascinating, Trunks . . . and if I don't make them, they'll take you away from me.  I can't let them do that."

Trunks scowled and crossed his arms sullenly, hating to be a burden.  That was the way it was to be a kid — he always got in the way or caused trouble.  "Maybe you should let them.  I don't wanna' be a . . . a liabili-something . . ."

"Liability," Mama chuckled lightly, reaching down to tousle Trunks' hair.  "You're not a liability, kiddo'.  Stop being silly.  You can help me program."

Trunks made a face at that, and went over to the closet, where he raised his eyebrows at the selection of clothing.  "How did these guys know what kind of clothes and stuff I wear?"

"Beats me.  But try to find something that matches, okay?"

Trunks snorted, but agreed.

Bulma watched him out the corner of her eye for a few seconds, to make sure Trunks was indeed picking something suitable, and afterward she turned her attention back to the notebook in front of her.  _I certainly hope they decide to give me a computer,_ Bulma thought, rather grumpy.  Truth be told, the chance to design something new — no matter what it was — gave Bulma a thrill.  It had been so long since Bulma had been able to sit down with no previous blueprints, no preconceptions; just an idea, a few requirements . . . and, of course, a few hundred guns pointed her way.  

Even if what she was creating could kill her friends, Bulma knew she never had to finish the project.  She was confident she could discover a leak in the NRR security before it came time for the production of the weapons.  Bulma's narcissism when it came to her programming was definitely a character flaw, but as Bulma never tired of pointing out, her self-assurance was justified.

"Are you gonna' have to do the program on paper, Mama?" Trunks said in his "I-think-that's-so-stupid" voice.  "Are they dumb?"

  


"Hah," Bulma laughed in acquiescence, giving Trunks a once-over and nodding approvingly.  The boy had chosen a navy blue shirt and dark grey sweat pants, similar to the ensemble Vegeta often favoured when he was training.  Bulma blinked rapidly as a wash of homesickness enveloped her, and she covered it by smiling at her son.  "It's still early in the morning, Trunks.  When somebody comes to take us to breakfast, I'll ask about it."

"I guess."

Bulma scribbled more notes for around ten minutes when the door chime sounded.  "What?" she called absentmindedly, not really caring.  She knew it was nothing bad if whoever it was had bothered to give notice of his presence.

"You're up already?" Entare sounded surprised as he and a small contingent of lower-ranked officers entered the room.

"Mama never sleeps in," Trunks replied pompously, sneering at Entare with disdain.  Having been unconscious during Entare's last visit, Trunks had no knowledge of the soldier's kindness to him — whatever the motivation had been.  "Well . . ." the boy's eyes glittered with sarcastic amusement, and he raised his eyebrows.  "Sometimes she sleeps in almost until lunch."

Bulma rolled her eyes, feeling her face redden at her son's not-so-veiled lewdness.  Hopefully no one else noticed.  "Trunks, get back," she called, feeling her stomach twist nervously.  She didn't trust the officers not to take a crack at Trunks if the demi-Saiyajin got too mouthy.  "Don't be rude."

"You're just mad 'cause I gots more witty lines than you," Trunks crossed his arms, grinning smugly, and one of the lieutenants stifled a laugh. 

"Anyway," Entare coughed pointedly.  "If you want breakfast, you'd better come now.  If not, we'll just escort you to the laboratory."

"Oh, so I _do_ get a computer?" Bulma scoffed, standing up with her notebook in hand.  "That's good.  I thought I was going to have to do this all by hand, and then I wouldn't be able to give you anything more technologically advanced than a biological slingshot."

"Whatever works," Entare quipped, and the guards flanked Bulma and Trunks.  Before they moved out, however, Entare looked at Bulma with his eyebrows raised.  "Uh, Briefs-san, you might want to change your clothes first.  Unless you _want_ to walk around in your nightgown all day, but I wouldn't advise it."

Bulma glanced down at herself and blushed furiously, feeling her face flaming with embarrassment as she noticed more than one of the younger officers with their gazes fixed on her chest.  "You hooligans!" she screeched, pulling her robe decently over herself and shooting dagger-tipped glares at the offending men.  

Entare scowled disapprovingly at his men and Trunks kicked one discreetly as Bulma snatched an outfit out of the closet, still screaming expletives.  Entare looked at Trunks in surprise, wondering if the child was affected by the foul language, but Trunks just laughed and shook his head.  "You made Mama mad," Trunks grinned, "That's not good.  You don't wanna' make her mad."

"I see that."

Bulma emerged a few minutes later, still muttering imprecations against the "disgusting little perverts," as she put it, and she stuck close to Entare as they walked to the mess hall.  She wasn't sure when the Captain crossed the line from a nameless enemy to a potential ally, but Bulma shrugged it off.  She was still curious as to Entare's position in the NRR Army, for he seemed much less sadistic and cruel than his fellow officers.

"Hey, what is that?" Entare asked a few minutes later, he and his men hovering over Bulma and Trunks' shoulders as they ate.  The man pointed to Bulma's notebook, which she grabbed protectively and stuck in her pocket. 

"Preliminary ideas," Bulma replied primly.  "Top secret.  You know how it is."

  


Several officers snorted, but Entare just nodded.  "That's fine.  I'm not the one who will be checking your progress anyway — I'm not sure who will be, but you'll find out in a few minutes."

"I'm not going to have someone hanging over me while I'm trying to work, am I?" Bulma accused, stopping with a her chopsticks halfway to her mouth, one eyebrow lifted.  "Because I hate that.  It's hard enough with Trunks in the room, and at least he knows to leave me alone."

Entare shook his head, taking the hint and stepping back a pace.  Trunks seized the opportunity to reach across and help himself to another serving of everything.  "No, no.  Someone will come in every hour or so, but no more.  I warn you, though, don't try to hack into the system.  You will have blueprints at your disposal, but our security system is unmatched.  Our firewalls would catch any interference you tried."

"Mama sucks at slicing anyway," Trunks spoke up, glaring at Bulma when she drew herself up in indignation.  "I bet _I'm_ better than her.  And I can't even type."

"Hey!" Bulma interjected, though she silently thanked Trunks for his insight.  "I can slice . . . um . . . all right," she shrugged, feigning embarrassment, allowing her anger at the snickering officers to flush her face, hoping they took it to be from humiliation.

Judging from the looks on their faces, Bulma guessed the ploy had worked, and that no one would worry about her attempting to hack into the system.  "Well, never mind, then," Entare chuckled, though he was obviously trying not to.  He looked at Trunks suddenly, who was in the process of topping up his plate again, and annoyance crossed his face for the first time that day.  "Listen, do you want to stop?" he grabbed Trunks' wrist.  "This isn't a restaurant, you know."

Trunks looked at Entare calmly, then removed his hand from the man's grasp and continued eating.  Bulma recognized the steely glint that came up in the eyes of several soldiers, and she reached over and pulled Trunks' plate away.  "Okay, Trunks, I think that's enough.  You don't want to run out their food supply on the second day."

"Guess not," Trunks stuffed another roll in his mouth then sat back, Bulma's subtle rebuke more effective than the gun pointed at his head had been.  Bulma smiled, recognizing that same trait in Vegeta.  She could usually get him to stop misbehaving with a few words or even a gesture or shake of the head.

_Vegeta . . ._

Bulma shook her head and stood up abruptly, knocking one of the soldiers back a few steps.  "Let's get going," she said sharply.  Anything to get her mind off Vegeta . . . 

"Right," Entare looked at her oddly like he didn't know what facilitated her sudden desire to get to work, but he wasn't going to ask.  "Follow me."

******

"_What do you mean, you don't know where they are??!_"

The Lookout rang with the strident voice of an enraged Saiyajin Prince, who was shouting at the top of his lungs.  The target of his ire was a three-foot-tall Namekusejin wearing healer's robes and carrying a knobby walking stick that was too tall for him, behind which he was currently hiding.

"I'm sorry, Vegeta-san!" Dende, the Guardian of the Earth, peeked around his fists at the irate Vegeta.  "I tried, but I can't sense their life energies anywhere.  Something must be blocking them," this didn't placate Vegeta any, so Dende tried again.  "I'm _sorry_, Vegeta-sama!" perhaps the greater honorific would help.

"Don't 'Vegeta-sama' me, you little green _freak_!" Vegeta roared, and Dende winced.  _Guess not,_ he thought, reminding himself silently never to try that again.  "What could be blocking their life forces?"

  


"I already told you, I don't know!"

Vegeta growled, and before Dende knew what was happening, the Saiyajin's fist lashed out, catching the pint-sized guardian in the side of the head and knocking him to the ground.  Dende skidded across the smooth tiled floor of the Lookout, barely coming to a stop before sliding over the edge.  "I don't care what your excuses are, Namekusejin," Vegeta growled, advancing upon him, "I want to know where they are, _now_!"

"Vegeta . . ." this was Yamucha, calling nervously from the other side of the Lookout.  "Go easy on him!  He's just a kid.  If he doesn't know, then he doesn't know.  Hurting him isn't going to do anyth —"

"SHUT UP, HUMAN!" Dende winced at the loud tone, and he clutched his sensitive ears in pain.  "When I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you, never fear!  Just leave me alone and let me do the questioning!"

Dende got to his feet slowly, using his walking stick as a prop.  "Vegeta-sama, please . . . don't hit me.  It's not going to help me figure out what's going on.  I - I haven't been able to sense Bulma or Trunks' life energies since . . . since two days ago, I think.  Do you want me to contact Goku-san, to see if he's met them in Other World?"

"They are _not_ dead!" Vegeta snarled viciously, and once again Dende felt himself flying through the air, this time smashing into a support pillar and crumbling to the ground.  Vegeta was really in a mood this time, and Dende didn't know how far he would go if Dende couldn't give him the answers he wanted.  Yamucha might try to stop him, but the Namekusejin knew humans were no match against Saiyajin.

"If you say anything stupid like that again, so help me . . ." Dende couldn't see Vegeta, since his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.  "Guardian or no Guardian, I will beat you until you can't even _feel_ it anymore!  My woman and my son are _not_ dead!"

Dende nodded, wishing someone would help him.  He could hear Yamucha trying to speak, then a sound like a punch and a body hitting the floor, and he knew Yamucha's efforts were in vain.  "Okay, they're not dead . . ." Dende gasped, "I was just trying to come up with an explana —"

"I don't care _what_ you were doing, you were being _stupid_!" the air whistled, and Dende knew a blow was coming.

"Vegeta!  What the _hell_ do you think you're _doing_?!"

Dende cracked open his eyes in time to see Piccolo materialize to catch Vegeta's punch in his own fist, then he quickly grabbed the Saiyajin by the throat and lifted him in the air.  Vegeta was too startled to react in time to stop Piccolo, and Dende sagged in relief.

"You do _not_ attack the Guardian of Earth, Vegeta.  Especially if he's my protégé!  I don't care who you think you are," Piccolo growled, and Dende thought that he had never heard Piccolo's anger as more welcome.  "Now what's going on?"

Vegeta pried Piccolo's hand from his throat, dropping the three feet to the ground and giving Piccolo a sour eye.  "I was just trying to jar his memory, Namekujsejin.  Nothing _evil_," the last word dripped with sarcasm.  "My mate and our son have disappeared, and I want to find them."

Piccolo crossed his arms, and his frown deepened. "Come to think of it, I can't sense them.  Do you know what happened?  That brat of yours is too young to be of any use if he was kidnapped, and Bulma is a weakling.  It would be best to find them as quickly as possible."

For some reason, Vegeta was glad for Piccolo's gruff insults — they mirrored his own way of dealing with the unfamiliar, and somehow he felt a little more relaxed.  Though he'd never admit it, Vegeta knew he and the Namekusejin warrior had more in common than just their tempers.  Likewise folding his arms across his chest, Vegeta told Piccolo what he knew, his skirmish with Dende forgotten.

  


As Vegeta spoke, he could see the scowl lines between Piccolo's eyes furrow even deeper, and Vegeta knew without speaking that the Namekusejin wouldn't be able to shed any light on the situation.  "I'm sorry, Vegeta," the fighter said slowly, "I can't help you.  I can't think of anything that would block a person's life energy, unless they were dead.  And you're sure they're alive?" Vegeta started to snarl, but Piccolo fixed him with a dark glare.  "Seriously.  Don't give me any of that 'I would know' garbage, either.  Have you thought about it?"

Something in the Namekusejin's eyes wouldn't let Vegeta scoff over the possibility, and for once he couldn't meet another person's gaze.  "I don't want to think about it," he mumbled, embarrassed.  "It would be like someone telling you that Kakarotto's brat might be dead.  You wouldn't like that, would you!"

"Of course not," Piccolo replied in the same self-conscious tone of voice, one that was only evident when Gohan was mentioned.  "But you still have to consider the possibility.  Do you want Dende to contact Son or Enma-dao for you?"

Vegeta scowled blackly, though not out of anger — he didn't want the Namekusejin to see the fear that was knotting his stomach, threatening to paralyze him.  As soon as he thought this, however, one corner of Piccolo's mouth tilted upward in an understanding smirk.  _Blasted telepathy_, Vegeta grunted inwardly, and Piccolo snorted.

"Yeah, whatever," Vegeta tried to cross his arms defensively, but they were already in that position, and he shook his head instead.  "They won't be there, but if it would make you shut up, then I'm all for it."

"Sure."

Piccolo turned to Dende and conferred with him quietly, while Vegeta left and leaned against a pillar, trying to act unconcerned.  He could see Yamucha staggering to his feet slowly, and a grin crossed Vegeta's face when he saw the bruise forming on the human's jaw.  He deserved it . . . and without Bulma there to yell at him, Vegeta could do whatever he wanted.

Without Bulma.

Vegeta grimaced, and his insides twisted again.  He didn't like this feeling!  He didn't _want_ to feel incomplete without the woman around.  It made him feel vulnerable, and vulnerability was something Vegeta had spent his entire life trying to avoid.  It was a handicap, blunting his reasoning and clouding his judgement whenever he tried to do or think something that his family would disapprove of, or that could harm them.

It hadn't been that bad up until now, though — Vegeta hadn't had any cause to be truly _worried_ about his family before.  They had been safely under his protection, and anyone whom he caught even looking at them wrong was severely punished.  But the one time he had left them alone . . . they were gone.  He should have been stubborn, he never should have agreed to go buy groceries!  If only the woman didn't have so much power over him!

Without thinking about what he was doing, Vegeta reached into his pocket and pulled out Bulma's necklace, holding it in his open palm and staring at it.  The thin chain hung over his hand like a river of gold, and he clenched his fingers around it tightly.  Holding it brought the shock of losing Bulma fresh to his mind, and he ground his teeth together in rage — both at whoever was at fault for this, and at his own ineffectiveness.

Suddenly, Vegeta's eyes widened, as he realized that in his haste to find Bulma he had left all the dead bodies on the floor in the living room.  All those soldiers, plus Bulma's parents . . . though he was used to planet-wide carnage, Vegeta still shuddered involuntarily.  He didn't really care about the soldiers . . . he could blast their bodies to ashes once he got back.  Bulma's parents, on the other hand — they deserved a proper burial, not just instant cremation.  And after being out in the open for so long, all those bodies had probably started to smell horribly . . .

That was definitely a mark of Bulma's influence over him.  A few years ago, Vegeta wouldn't have cared about the decency of giving her parents a funeral service, no matter how much they did for him.  Now, it seemed almost unthinkable to leave them there to rot in their own livingroom.  

  


Funny thing was, Vegeta didn't really mind "getting soft" — at least, not in that respect.  Having more sympathy for the dead wasn't all that horrible.  Come to think of it, most of the changes Bulma had wrought in him weren't terrible, they were just blows to his pride that he didn't want to be made fun over.  Though he had never admitted it to Bulma or anyone else, Vegeta was finding his new tolerance to be somewhat of a relief.  It was easier to live without having to keep his defenses up twenty-four hours a day . . .

Which was all the more reason to get Bulma and Trunks back.  Like it or not, he missed them.

"Vegeta?"

He looked up, and was surprised to see something that _almost_ resembled a smile on Piccolo's face.  "Dende talked to Enma-dao, and it seems that Bulma and Trunks never reached the Checkout Station.  So that means they're still on Chikyuu somewhere."

"I knew it," Vegeta tried to sound smug, but his voice came out raspy with relief, and he looked away, embarrassed.  He needn't have, however, since Piccolo didn't make any comment.  "So that leaves me back at square one, then."

"Yeah, I suppose so," Piccolo looked at him askance, head tilted sideways.  "Do you want me to come with you and help you look for them?"

Vegeta blinked in surprise, wondering at the Namekusejin's offer, and at the reasoning behind it.  If Gohan had been the one missing, Vegeta would have understood, but Piccolo had never shown anyone else compassion as far as Vegeta knew.  "If it's all the same to you, Namekusejin, I'd rather keep it personal.  The only reason _that_ idiot is coming" — he jerked a thumb in Yamucha's direction.  The human was conversing with Popo — "is because of his past connections to the woman and he insisted."

"I understand," Piccolo nodded, then he frowned again.  "But what is the point of flying around looking for them, Vegeta?  You know as well as I do that you are never going to find them that way."

"Well what do you suggest then?" Vegeta asked, positively dripping with sarcasm.  "Since you seem to be so full of ideas today."

One green brow ridge lifted, whether in challenge or in amusement, Vegeta couldn't tell.  Perhaps both.  "Did you think of using the Dragonballs?"

For the first time in his life, Vegeta felt completely and utterly stupid, and he avoided Piccolo's gaze — which was _definitely_ amused by now.  "Of _course_ I thought of using them, you fool!" Vegeta snarled, curling his lip in what he hoped came across as disdain.  "I just thought it would be easier if your pint-sized protege knew where they were."

Piccolo nodded sagely, though he didn't make any further gibes.  He didn't need to.  "All right.  Just checking.  But since Dende _doesn't_ know where Bulma is, are you going to try the Dragonballs now?"

"I have to find the radar first, Namekusejin.  Don't you know _anything_?"

Piccolo just snorted.

******

"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!!" 

  


Trunks, hiding under the computer desk, watched silently as his mother went on one of her infamous rampages.  They occurred most often at home, when she was working on one of her programs and Papa wouldn't leave her alone.  Trunks, who liked to play in Mama's lab (but out of the way, in case she went ballistic), watched the exchanges with a sort of twisted amusement.  Papa would barge in, demanding food, new training equipment, or (if he didn't see Trunks) "private" time . . . Mama didn't usually take too kindly to it.

Papa thought it was funny when Mama chased him around, throwing things, because she couldn't possibly hurt him.  Trunks did, too.  But now, as Trunks watched Mama ranting at one of the soldiers, he didn't think it was as amusing as when it happened at home . . .

Papa, while he shouted and carried on, secretly liked it when Mama yelled at him.  The man in front of Mama, on the other hand, didn't look the least bit pleased.

"I _cannot_ work with some _idiot_ standing there with a stupid _rifle_ pointed at my head!"  Mama screeched, flinging an assortment of pens and pencils at the stoic guard.  None actually reached their target, as Mama was left-handed and it was that arm which was broken.  "Do you have any _idea_ how _annoying_ it is to have you reading over my _shoulder_?!"

She continued in this same way until her supply of ammunition was exhausted, and once that happened, the guard lifted an eyebrow.  "Are you finished?"

Mama stopped and glared fiercely, and Trunks shook his head.  That was what Papa always said.  "I won't be finished until you leave," she crossed her arms as best she could and straightened imperiously, a gesture Trunks recognized from the times he'd accompanied her to board meetings at Capsule Corporation.  The soldier didn't seem impressed.  "You might as well just stand outside the door and guard from there, because I'm just not going to work unless you do."

The man snorted derisively.  "This is fine coming from someone who has no position to bargain from," he pointed out, hefting his rifle ostentatiously.  "Scream all you want, Briefs-san, but it will make no difference."

Trunks was quickly becoming alarmed — it was the same position as it had been with Bouryoku; this man wasn't Papa, and would have no problem hurting Mama if she got too annoying.  "Mama," he piped up, but no one heard him.

"You can't kill me," Mama sneered, "Because then you'll have no one to work for you.  And you can't kill my son, either, because if you do that, then I won't work at all and you'll _have_ to kill me.  So that's no good."

"You aren't as indispensable as you think.  Don't make the mistake of thinking that."

The verbal battle could have gone on much longer had Trunks not gotten irritated and climbed out from beneath the desk.  "Mister, just go outside," he commanded, hands on his hips in a parody of his mother.

The man didn't even quirk a smile, and he looked at Trunks disdainfully.  "No," he said simply, not bothering to waste any more words than he had to on a little brat.

Trunks shook his head.  "Mama won't work if she's mad.  Go away and she'll be happy."

"Orders are orders."

Borrowing from his father's vocabulary, Trunks told the man exactly where he could stick those orders, and Mama snickered, though she pretended to be shocked.  The soldier didn't flinch, and he pointed the barrel of his weapon at Trunks.  "Shut up.  Both of you."

"Listen," Mama planted her hands on her own hips.  "We could stand here arguing all day, or you could just step outside and let me work in peace.  I'm not asking to have free run of the place — all I want is a little privacy.  That's not too much to ask, is it?"

"This is not a hotel —"

  


"I know it isn't.  If it was, I would take over the company and have you all fired," Mama smirked, "But since it isn't, you could at least show me a little courtesy.  Prisoner or no, I'm practically an employee.  Leave me alone in this room and I won't ask for anything else."

The man's lip twitched, then he scowled.  "Fine.  But if you try anything, you _will_ be sorry."

"I know," Mama shrugged, and Trunks could tell she was trying not to gloat.  Doing so would make the man angry, and then he'd never leave.  "My productivity will improve if I'm left to work on my own."

Without replying, the soldier turned on his heel and left the room, the door sliding open and shut behind him.  The electronic lock clicked.

"Finally," Bulma breathed, flicking the universal gesture of contempt at the door.  "I thought he'd never leave.  Maybe now I can get some work done."

"Papa would kill all these bad people," Trunks declared vehemently, plopping down onto the floor.  Entare-san had left a pile of paper and some crayons for him to colour with, and he eyed them with obvious disinterest.  Bulma winced, knowing that form of entertainment would have been more effective for Goten.  After a few seconds, Trunks picked up a crayon dubiously and began to draw.

"Don't talk so much about killing," Bulma reproached him absently, staring at the computer screen, trying to think of a way to hack into the security system.  It wouldn't be easy, she knew, but no computer system on the planet was more heavily-encoded than that of Capsule Corporation, and Bulma knew how it worked.  She could get through eventually . . .  The smartest thing the NRR technicians could have done was give her a computer not connected to the network, but they probably hadn't thought of that.  "It's not nice."

"Well, he _would_."

Bulma just laughed and set to work, typing one-handedly.  "Don't worry, Trunks.  Daddy will find us soon, I'm sure of it," she called over her shoulder.  "And if he doesn't, Mommy will find a way out of here herself."

"Papa will find us," Trunks agreed vociferously, waving a crayon for emphasis.  He was currently wearing down a black crayon by colouring a flame-haired warrior with an overly-large widow's peak, blasting a group of uniform-wearing stick figures to ashes.  The boy added splashes of red blood with enough enthusiasm to be significantly worrisome.  "He knows what our _ki_ feels like."

"It's just a question of when," Bulma murmured, already immersed in her work.  She didn't hear her son's loud cackles as he started on another picture of what would happen when Papa found them.

SOME HOURS LATER

"Okay, Trunks, time to tell Mommy she's a genius," Bulma muttered under her breath, unaware that Trunks had fallen asleep some time before.  "I think I've got it now."

Bulma had to admit that the system was a pretty good one, as security programs went, but they hadn't anticipated on her expertise.  Several times, to see how good the security around Capsule Corporation's programming was, Bulma attempted to hack into it herself — and each time, had succeeded.  The NRR's computer was good, but not as good as she was.

There was still a long way to go, of course, but Bulma had managed to pull up the basics of the security system.  No details were available at this level, but Bulma was confident she could get to them at some point, maybe in a week or so.  Until then, she studied the schematics that she had on hand.

The entire compound was underground, which was no surprise, except for a small factory complex that was most likely a dummy company, run by officials who — in all probability — had no idea of what went on beneath them.  Clever, of course, but not an original idea.  It had been done before.

  


Ground security was definitely tighter than that of the Neo Red Ribbon Army's predecessor company.  Guards were stationed at fixed points throughout the compound, with others on random patrol.  It would take some time to figure out a pattern.  Walls, ceilings and floors had weapons emplacements, security screens, and other such devices to be employed  if a general alarm was sounded.

Most interesting, however, was a type of precaution that Bulma had never encountered before.  A strange, force-field-like shield was in place over the entire compound, with similar generators in place in each vehicle the NRR owned, and no matter how much Bulma unearthed, she couldn't figure out its purpose.  

The shield wouldn't block bullets, bombs, or missiles . . . the building material was strong enough to deflect those on its own anyway — even a nuclear explosion, Bulma discovered, but that wasn't unusual.  Airplanes had been made from metals strong enough to withstand the fallout of a nuclear explosion. 

Bulma leaned forward and squinted at the screen, thinking (not for the first time) that she was going to need glasses, at this rate.  A certain line of code relating to the shield caught her eye, and the programmer's fingers flew over the keys as she attempted to isolate it.  It took time, as Bulma carefully avoided firewalls and other traps, but she was finally rewarded by a beep and a schematic that filled the screen.

The internal power core of the generator was made of a powerful metal . . . it contained an alloy of lead and other minerals, and Bulma's eyes widened.  Each mineral chosen for the alloy had a similar property; each blocked out a certain type of radiation.  One metal, however, was completely manufactured, and Bulma had no clue as to its purpose.

"What the heck . . ." Bulma muttered, running through the codes until her eyes ached.  "It couldn't just be protection from radar — that's not it.  The ground material protects this part from any type of radar or satellite probe.  No, it's something else."

She frowned.  Reading through what specifics she could find, it didn't seem like the shield was meant to keep _anything_ out.  From what she could tell, it was completely superfluous . . . but that didn't seem right.  No organization as efficient as the NRR would waste zenni on something useless.

"Okay," Bulma shook her head, pressing her fingers to her temples in a poor attempt to massage away a headache.  "There has to be a reason for this.  If it's not keeping anything _out_, it must be keeping something _in_ . . ."

The connection was made instantly, and Bulma scrolled back up to the list of materials in the core of the generator.  Yes . . . that metal . . . "_Vilegenentium_", as it was called . . . it was striking a bell in Bulma's memory, now — something she had read in a scientific magazine of her father's.  

After recognizing Android #20 as Dr. Gero from one of her father's magazines, Bulma read each new issue from cover to cover — just in case she found something of importance.  Now, Bulma racked her brains and came up with an article she had read a few years ago, though only with passing interest.

It was on the creation of a new mineral, one which promised to revolutionize manned espionage missions, for it absorbed the traceable element a person's individual life energy.  The scientists were only now recognizing the truth that certain individuals could sense others using their _ki_ as a guide, and that these people were frequently employed in military operations.

This element, developed by the Spectronium Institute (most likely the dummy company on top of the NRR compound), was an innovation in stealth.  _Vilegenentium_, Bulma realized, eyes widening, powered the force field . . . which, in turn, effectively masked the life energies of everyone within its circle.

Bulma sank back in her chair, staring dully at the screen.  _That_ was why Vegeta was unable to find her . . . he couldn't sense her, or Trunks.  Even if he'd had a workable scouter, it would still not register them.

  


What if . . . what if, since he couldn't sense them, Vegeta thought they were dead?  What if he didn't look for them because he thought they'd been murdered?  Bulma felt a chill run through her, and she glanced down at her slumbering son, whose head lay on his papers.  The top drawing displayed a stick-figure Vegeta ripping the head off of another person with a long braid — Blade, probably.  The faith the child had in his father was incredible . . .

Shuddering, Bulma turned back to the computer screen and exited the security schematic, careful to leave no trace that she had visited.  That finished, she quickly opened the program she was supposed to use to use, and entered in the basic codes for her sketches.  Once she was finished, an hour or two later, she knew it could have passed for a day's work by any other programmer.

Bulma pushed her chair back from the desk and shakily wiped sweat from her forehead.  No life energy . . . for all Vegeta knew, his "woman" and his son could be dead.  He would go insane, if he thought that — 

No!  Vegeta would never give up on them, Bulma thought stubbornly, kneeling down beside Trunks and cleaning up his mess — anything to give herself a task, to keep her mind from wandering.  Vegeta would look for them, whether he could sense them or not.

Of course he would . . . right?

She shook her head violently, not realizing she was crumpling up Trunks' drawings as she unconsciously clenched her fists.  "Well," she murmured, "Whether or not he'll give up, Vegeta won't be able to find us.  Not on his own, anyway."

The turquoise-haired woman clenched her fists tightly, and her brow knitted with determination.  "I'll have to get that force field down," Bulma gritted her teeth.  "Or _something_.  I won't let them control me like this — it's stupid!  I'll do this myself, even if I have to shut down all the security devices from here."

Trunks stirred in his sleep and his crystal-blue eyes cracked open.  "Hi, Mama," he yawned widely, showing off his small, pearly teeth.  "Are you done for today?"

"Yes," Bulma tousled his hair, noticing he had become much more tolerant of affectionate displays since their abduction.  "It's suppertime.  The guards should be coming to take us to the mess hall soon, I bet."

The boy frowned.  "What's taking Papa so long, anyway?  It's been days already.  He shoulda' found us by now!"

The skin around Bulma's eyes tightened, and she lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug.  "I don't know, Trunks.  Have faith in him, okay?"

Trunks nodded, then his round face brightened and he held up his drawings.  "You wanna' see?  They're all what'll happen to these stupidheads when Papa gets here!"

Forcing a smile, Bulma lifted Trunks into her lap and oohed and aahed at his pictures.  Anything to keep her occupied, even for a few minutes . . .

******

"HYAAA!!"

The air rang with the cries of a young woman as Blade fought viciously against a military-grade punching bag.  Sweat beaded up on her forehead and ran into her eyes, strands of brown hair sticking to her face, but she ignored all such minor annoyances.

Kick, punch, kick . . . Blade delivered blow after blow to the bag, imagining it to be the Briefs woman and her brat of a son.  She imagined the snobbish woman crumpling up in agony, blood pouring from her mouth and nose, bones cracking . . . the lavender-haired boy running to help, only to be struck down himself . . .

  


Her blows became more and more frantic, until finally, the bottom of the bag burst and sand cascaded from the canvas, raising a huge cloud.  Through it all, Blade stood with her fists clenched, jade-green eyes narrowed.

"Someday, Briefs," she bit through gritted teeth.  "Someday they won't need you anymore.  And then . . ."

But the sound of sand falling to the concrete obscured the rest of her sentence.

******

A/N: Hopefully, the next one won't take so long -- but, unfortunately, I can't make promises. You're lucky I don't say "Give me X number of reviews or I won't update" or anything like that! Don't worry, I'm not about to resort to anything that childish. However, feedback is always appreciated, as it is with any author willing to improve. 

Next time: Vegeta begins his Dragonball hunt -- but where's the radar? Bulma continues to hack into the system, and has another conversation with Entare. Trunks drives his mother crazy in the lab and is put in the care of one of the officers . . . not telling who, but let's say she's not too thrilled about having to look after a six-year-old . . . ^_^ 


	6. Kids Can't Live With 'Em

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT does not belong to me. It is the property of Akira Toriyama, Toei Animation, and FUNimation. I've completely run out of funny disclaimers. So, to make up for this sad loss, I give you . . . Dancing Chibi Trunks!

[Chibi Trunks dances]

There you are.

A/N: I haven't updated this in an even longer period than Deeper Than Colour! Believe me when I tell you that this story has been bonking me over the head for the entire two years since my last posting. It's a complex storyline, for me at least, and I'm still not sure about it. There's a lot more politics than I'd like and no way to get around them.

But oh well, I'll work it out. I knew when I started this story that it wasn't going to be particularly simple, and that's how it's going to stay. I just have to work out some of the specifics. I'll get it done, never fear!

One last A/N: This chapter is officially dedicated to my best friend Shaun, a.k.a. Kuririn. He's the one who prodded and poked and bothered and threatened me until I finally got this chapter out. Any of you who were waiting for this may send him your thanks in the form of cash, cheque, money order, or cute boys. Eheh.

Damsel In Distress? Not Likely!

**Chapter Six: Kids — Can't Live With 'Em . . .**

Loud retching and gagging noises broke the silence of the house. A few seconds later, Yamucha staggered out through the door, one hand pressed over his mouth, and the other clutching spasmodically at his stomach. After vomiting on the lawn for a few minutes, the human climbed shakily to his feet and managed to stumble back into the house.

Inside, Vegeta stood with his arms crossed, surveying the bodies lying on the floor of Bulma's living room. The only visible sign of discomfort was his nose, wrinkled in distaste at the stench rising from the corpses — but then it might have only been disgust at Yamucha's weakness. Otherwise, his expression betrayed no emotion.

Yamucha slumped wearily against the doorjamb, struggling vainly to control his heaving stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trembling. "Man, Vegeta! How can you just stand there with all those bodies?"

He'd intended it to be a rhetorical question, but to Yamucha's surprise, Vegeta spoke up. "This is nothing," his words were scornful, but his tone was noncommittal, casual. He could have been reporting the weather. "I had seen a thousand times this much destruction by the time I was my son's age."

"That's more than mildly disturbing," Yamucha grimaced, images springing to mind of three-foot-tall, chubby-cheeked little Vegeta surrounded by carnage. Cold shivers ran rampant down his spine, and Yamucha wondered if the experience to which Vegeta had admitted, had any impact upon his development as a child. Witnessing genocide had to have drastic effects on a six-year-old's personality.

Vegeta turned sharply, shooting Yamucha a frigid glare. "Save your pity for someone who wants it, you weakling. Help me get rid of the bodies."

"Sorry."

The two fighters dragged the bloody corpses of the military men and women outside, trying to ignore the smell. Once the pile of bodies was complete, Vegeta raised a hand and released a large energy blast, reducing the soldiers to a mound of ashes. "Disgusting humans," Vegeta growled, spitting derisively on the remains. "It's lucky for them that the woman killed them quickly . . . I would not have been so merciful."

Silently, Yamucha stood back, sensing Vegeta wanted to be alone, and he leaned back against a tree, a frown creasing the lines of his face. He had seen Vegeta in variety of bad moods, ranging from annoyed, angered, exasperated, battle-crazed, beaten, and furious . . . but nothing like this.

Vegeta's expression was dark; the only comparison Yamucha could come up with was the sky before a gigantic thunderstorm, where the dark clouds rolled about in the turbulent sky, and thunder and lightning crashed ominously in the distance.

He wasn't quite sure how that image translated into a facial expression, but something about Vegeta's tight mouth, churning onyx eyes, and flushed skin seemed to exude pure danger. Whoever they were, Yamucha did not want to be Bulma's kidnappers when Vegeta found them.

After a time, Vegeta's low, wordless growl erupted into a primal roar, and his energy flared up around him, white and sparking. The ashes were blown into the wind and scattered by the force of Vegeta's aura. Yamucha flew roughly into the tree with such an impact that the thick trunk splintered and toppled over.

Eventually, Vegeta wrestled his emotions under control and reigned in his power, glancing at Yamucha with what might have been embarrassment — if he had been anyone but Vegeta. Scowling fiercely, Vegeta fixed Yamucha with a stare that practically _dared_ him to make fun of him. Fortunately for Yamucha, he recognized the unspoken threat and wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Are you going to gape all day, human, or are you going to help?" Vegeta snapped, the sharpness in his voice startling Yamucha.

"No, I'm coming," Yamucha agreed readily, not wanting to spark the irate Saiyajin into abusing him any more. His jaw still felt stiff from the punch Vegeta had dealt him earlier, even though Dende had healed him.

Wordlessly, Yamucha and Vegeta carried the bodies of Bulma's parents outside. Yamucha almost threw up again when he saw them, lying in the puddle of blood and brains that had dried and hardened. The gruesome sight was enough to make Yamucha swear off eating anything for the next week.

As he cradled the doll-like form of Mrs. Briefs, tears gathered in Yamucha's eyes, spilling over when he tried to blink them away. Bulma's mother was a wonderful person, one of the few who had never badmouthed Yamucha for anything. While she didn't come off as particularly intelligent to most people, Mrs. Briefs was full of good advice and had acted as Yamucha's unofficial counsellor when he and Bulma fought.

He'd never thanked her for talking him through his relationship with Bulma . . . all the late-night chats in the kitchen, over mugs of tea . . . for sticking by him when Bulma erroneously accused him of cheating on her . . . believing in his strength when all the other warriors had surpassed him.

All that, and Yamucha had never expressed his gratitude. He shuddered, knowing it was too late now — he could only hope she had known how thankful he was.

Vegeta, bearing Mr. Briefs, remained stoic. He had said his goodbyes earlier, and was not about to do so again with the human present. Lifting a hand, Vegeta blew two holes in the ground with a couple quick blasts, not wasting time. He placed Mr. Briefs in one, instructing Yamucha to do likewise. Once the task was finished and they scooped earth back over them, Yamucha stood in front of the graves, chewing on his lip as he fought back another surge of tears.

Suddenly, he got an idea. "Hey, Vegeta, do you think —" he began, but the Saiyajin had gone. He was in the house again, and Yamucha heard various crashes and bangs as Vegeta began his search for the dragon radar. "Never mind," Yamucha muttered. "I'll ask later."

Shaking his head, the human walked back to the house to try to help Vegeta find the radar — if the irate man didn't kill him, first.

* * *

"Look, Mama, I'm a Suuuuper Saiyajin!" Trunks crowed, running around the room with his arms outstretched as though imitating an airplane. "Look, Mama, look!" 

"Trunks, Mommy is _busy_ right now," Bulma gritted, trying to tune out her son's high-pitched laughter, staring pointedly at the computer screen. She had been working on her various projects for a week now, and unfortunately, had come no farther in hacking into the security system. Perhaps she wasn't as clever as she thought . . .

"_Look_, Mama!" Trunks bounded to her side and tugged on Bulma's sleeve insistently. "_Look_! LookitlookitlookitlookitlookitLOOKIT!"

Tiredly, Bulma risked a glance at her son — and nearly had a heart attack. Trunks had taken the yellow marker he had been drawing with, and dutifully coloured his pale hair with it, including his eyebrows. Bulma's blue eyes popped, and she clapped her hand to her forehead.

"AAAUUGHH!" the woman screeched, "Trunks, you're _driving me crazy_!"

Trunks just laughed and skipped out of her reach, picking up crayons and pelting her with them, pretending they were laser blasts. "Pow! Boom! Bang! Lookit, I'm Papa! Big Bang Attack! Final Flash! HAAAAA!!!!!"

Bulma buried her face in her good hand and tried to ignore the crayons and markers that were flying across the room. "Why me?" she complained. It was hard enough being forced to build biological weapons to kill her friends, and simultaneously trying to crack one of the toughest computer systems on the planet, without having to deal with her hyperactive son. He was bad enough when Goten was around, but when he was stuck by himself — despite the sobering reality of being a prisoner, Trunks obviously couldn't take being cooped up in one room day after day.

The door opened and Entare entered with his soldiers, probably to take Bulma and Trunks to the mess hall for lunch. Bulma pounced. "Get him out of here!" she shrieked, grabbing Trunks by the waistband of his pants and holding him, kicking and yelling, in midair. "This boy is driving me nuts. How am I supposed to get anything done with him running around like a maniac?"

Entare's gaze swept over the disarray of the room, and his expression was a mixture of disbelief and stifled amusement as he took in Trunks' hair and the mess he had made. "I can see how it would be difficult, but honestly, Briefs-san, what do you expect me to do?"

"I don't care!" Bulma ranted, shoving her finger in the older man's face. "Either you find someone to watch him for me, or else I'll kill him myself! _Then_ how will you have any leverage over me? _Huh_?"

"You could _try_ to kill me," Trunks smirked, with the self-satisfied expression he inherited from his father. Both Saiyajin knew how much it infuriated Bulma. "It would be funny. Give everybody popcorn and let 'em watch."

Bulma let out another scream of frustration, causing all the soldiers to jump, startled. "Being held here against my will is bad enough," she snapped, "You can't expect me to deal with this, too!"

"But — Briefs-san —" Entare protested, obviously confused, "You're the one who insisted that your son be with you at all times! Make up your mind!"

Trunks wriggled out of Bulma's grasp and ran around the room, picking up his drawing utensils as though nothing else was going on. Bulma glared at Entare. "Listen, Mister. Don't sit here telling me what I said and what I did. Okay? I'm not saying you should throw Trunks in a dungeon or something — just let me work by myself for an afternoon. Is that too much to ask??!"

By the end of her plea, Bulma was again shouting at the top of her voice, waving her arm wildly. Trunks giggled at the looks of shock on all the men's faces. "Uh, fine," Entare said finally, "I'll find someone to watch him."

"Good," Bulma nodded with satisfaction. Somehow, being able to order her captors around made her imprisonment marginally more bearable. Suddenly, she wheeled on Entare, staring at him threateningly. "But if he hurts Trunks, let me tell you, I'll —"

"All right!" the man threw up his arms in frustration. "I know, I know! Nothing will happen to your child. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes," Bulma smiled primly, all signs of her previous loss of composure gone. "Thank you very much. Now, let's go have lunch."

Entare blinked slowly, and Bulma repressed a laugh at the stunned look on his face. He was obviously trying to process what had just happened. "Who's in charge of whom here?" she heard him mutter as they marched to the mess hall.

"Oh, you are, of course," Bulma replied brightly, "I'm just the prisoner. Why?"

"Never mind."

Next to her, his arms full of crayons and markers, Trunks giggled heartily.

At lunch, Trunks scarfed down as much food as he could before Mama caught him and made him stop. Entare-san got testy when Trunks ate too much. Trunks didn't like Entare-san very much yet, but he knew Mama did. She got less freaked out when that man was around than when it was somebody else, and Trunks noticed. He thought Entare-san noticed too, 'cause he made sure he was always there when they had to tell Mama to do something or take her somewhere.

Entare-san wasn't _that_ bad, Trunks decided generously. At least he had a little bit of patience. And he didn't stare at Mama like he wanted to do stuff like Papa did with her . . . some of the other bad guys looked at her like that. Trunks bet Papa would kill them just for looking at Mama like that. Mama usually didn't notice, but when she did boy oh boy the men paid for it. Mama was a scary lady when she got angry.

"Are you gonna' watch me?" Trunks asked Entare-san, his mouth full of dim sum. The army food was pretty yucky stuff at first, but Mama had hacked into the computer and found the files for the food processor. That was a few days ago. She told it to make better food, stuff that she and Trunks liked. It was funny 'cause either the army guys didn't notice the change or they were just glad they were eating food that actually tasted good now.

Entare-san raised an eyebrow and glanced at Trunks curiously. Trunks hated that expression. It was like he was a baby when people looked at him that way. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," Trunks rolled his eyes. Grownups were pretty dumb for pretending they were smart. "Mama likes you. Are you gonna' watch me?"

"No. Unfortunately, I have other priorities than babysitting," Entare-san smiled tolerantly. "I'll find someone who's off-duty to take care of you."

"Nobody boring," Trunks demanded, waving a chopstick for emphasis. "I'm a crazy, crazy kid. I don't wanna' make somebody go insane 'cause they're not tough enough to handle me."

The man chuckled, and Trunks felt a little stab of satisfaction. Entare-san was one of the few grownups who laughed when Trunks made jokes. The rest of the army guys just stared at him like he was stupid, or like they couldn't believe he didn't babble like an infant. Trunks grudgingly admitted that the Captain wasn't _that_ bad . . . but Papa could still kill him when he came. Or maybe just rip his toenails off.

After lunch was over, Entare-san motioned for Trunks to come with him while a small contingent of soldiers escorted Mama back to her lab. Trunks scowled at the tall man and refused to look at him, marching down the corridors with as much dignity and royal pride as he could exude with his small frame and lavender hair. He wasn't gonna' let a bunch of big men intimidate him. Even if they did have guns.

Entare-san led Trunks through the halls to a room that, from the outside, looked exactly like all the others. No matter how many times Trunks walked through the building, he always got lost in seconds. He bet Papa wouldn't, though. Papa would just shoot a bit blast down the hall and burn up the entire building.

Trunks giggled involuntarily, picturing all the people dying. He didn't feel bad about it anymore . . . he used to feel all guilty when he imagined killing, but not anymore. He knew enough about the NRR's motives to eradicate any sorrow he might feel on their part. He just wanted Papa to hurry up and get rid of them all.

Especially Mean Lady . . . or Blade, as she wanted everybody to call her. Trunks snorted. Blade . . . what a doofy name! Anybody who had to use weapons like that instead of their hands or energy blasts were weak. Weapons were okay, but if a warrior relied on them, then he wasn't a real fighter. Blade was all just pretend. She wasn't as tough as she thought she was. Just wait until Papa came. He always said that the only reason he didn't hit Mama was because he had too much honor to hit women . . . but Blade didn't count. She was a meanie woman.

Entare-san punched a number on the passcode-thingy on the door, but nobody answered. The man frowned impatiently and pounded the password again, muttering bad words under his breath. Trunks chuckled. Through the door came sounds of yells and noises like a punching bag getting hit. Trunks' eyes lit up enthusiastically. Maybe the guy who was going to baby-sit him would spar with him! That wouldn't be so bad . . . and he could get bruises and freak Mama out. If he was lucky, she would start throwing things again.

Entare-san pushed the intercom button and barked, "BLADE! Deactivate the manual override, at once!"

Trunks felt the blood leaving his face. Blade? He had to spend the afternoon with _her_? Oh boy . . . he tugged on Entare-san's pants. "I don't want to stay with her," he hissed. "If you make me, I'll kill her!"

"Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that," Entare-san smiled tolerantly, that smug, "I'm a grownup" look on his face . . . the one that Trunks wanted to blast away. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Blade won't hurt you."

"Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that," Trunks repeated mockingly, high pitching his voice and striking a goofy pose, but Entare-san pretended not to notice.

By the time Blade opened the door — very nonchalantly — Entare-san looked like he was about to break it down himself. Blade didn't seem any happier at the interruption, and Trunks started. He'd thought she was faking all the training noises, but it didn't appear to be. Her hair, pulled back in a French braid, was messy, loose strands sticking to her face and neck with sweat. The tank tops and track pants she wore were likewise sweat-soaked, and Trunks had to chalk up a few minor respect points. At least the mean ol' lady could train.

The esteem didn't last long, and Trunks sure wasn't laughing now. He stood with his arms crossed, legs planted firmly apart, glaring with all the ferocity he could muster. Entare-san had left him with an admonition to behave, and a warning to Blade not to touch him. "Why did it hafta' be _you_?" he demanded accusingly.

"Believe me, I'm asking the same question," retorted Blade, scowling down at him. She stood in a similar position, arms folded in hostility. "This is insulting."

"Insulting?" Trunks screeched. "Insulting! Hah! I'm the strongest kid in the whole world — I'm even stronger than you! You should be honoured to hafta' watch me! I'm just mad that I hafta' stay with an ugly meanie like you!"

Blade growled, then spun on her heel, military style, and returned to her punching bag. "I'm going to ignore you," she declared coldly, "So just shut up and amuse yourself. _Some_ of us have better things to do."

Trunks stuck out his tongue at her, but true to her word, the woman didn't even look at him. Irritated, the small boy plopped down onto the ground, pulled out his crayons, and started drawing dirty words on the floor. This got him snickering, and soon Trunks was scrawling obscene insults about Blade on the floor tiles — something that kept him gleefully amused until the subject of his scorn finally noticed.

"Hey! You're going to wash that off," the woman snapped, pointing.

"The hell I am. Make me," Trunks dropped into a fighting stance and gestured suggestively. "C'mon, let's spar!"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't fight with children."

Trunks scoffed. "Oooh, 'fraid you're gonna' loooose?" he taunted. "Poor ol' mean lady! Too 'fraid to fight a little kid 'cause she knows he's waaaay stronger than herrrrrrrr . . ."

Growling, Blade clenched her fists, bent her knees, and lashed out in a fast roundhouse kick that caught Trunks in the side of the head. Off-guard though he was, Trunks didn't move. "Hah! That was pathetic! I bet my _Gramma_ could kick better than that!"

In truth, the blow actually made Trunks' head ring, but of course, he would never admit to that! Like he'd ever give that ugly ol' crow any satisfaction. "You gots your free hit — now it's my turn!"

He debated turning Super Saiyajin, but tossed that idea aside quickly enough. Sure, he wanted to beat on Blade, but it would be over too fast if he transformed. She was a human, after all. Trunks powered up, enjoying the look of surprise on Blade's face. "No energy blasts," he declared, "I won't need 'em to beat'cha."

With that, he attacked with a powerhouse punch. Blade flew across the room and slammed hard into the far wall. Trunks pounded his fist in the air and cheered in triumph, noting gleefully that Blade's nose was dripping blood.

But then she was up, fists clenched and eyes glinting with challenge. Trunks started; Blade didn't even wipe the blood trickling down her chin. Instead, she dropped into battle stance, and charged.

A small smile worked its way across Trunks' face in spite of himself. Maybe this wouldn't be such a boring fight after all . . .

* * *

Entare knocked at Blade's door when it was time for supper. He felt slight misgiving at having left Trunks with his irascible underling, but she really was the only officer capable of watching the boy. One didn't obtain the highest combat rating in the entire NRR for nothing. 

Hopefully the boy had merely annoyed Blade for an hour and then fallen asleep. Judging by his hyperactive state this morning, the child shouldn't be able to maintain his energy for too long. Any normal child would have taken a nap long before now.

Mirroring this morning, no one answered Entare's polite rapping. Nor did Blade appear when he pounded heavily, nor when he shouted into the intercom. Just as he was at the breaking point, Entare took a chance and entered his passcode onto the door. It slid open.

The Captain muttered some choice expletives and stepped into the room, whereupon he froze in place.

Both Blade and little Trunks lay unconscious on the tile floor, bruised and bleeding from several fresh wounds. Entare swore loudly and dashed forward, cursing himself for placing Trunks in Blade's care. He'd known the two hated each other, but he wasn't aware it went _this_ far . . .

Just then, Trunks stirred. "Oog," the little boy muttered, rolling onto his side and spitting. Blood and a broken tooth splattered to the floor. "Who won?" Amazed, Entare watched as the child merely rolled his neck and shoulders, checking for dislocations, then looked at Blade.

"Hoo!" Trunks crowed, dancing around, "I woke up first! I win! Mean Lady loses! Hahahahaha!"

Entare could only stare as Trunks found the nearest marker and scribbled all over Blade's face, drawing circles around her eyes, whiskers, a moustache, and an 'I am Stoopid' tattoo on her forehead. Entare figured he should probably stop the boy, but it really was Blade's fault for fighting someone twenty years her junior.

At last, Trunks glanced over and noticed Entare's presence, shooting him a gap-toothed smile. "Hiya!" Trunks skipped over to him, "I beat Blade in a sparring match. Can I come back tomorrow?"

"Uh," struck speechless, Entare merely shook his head and led Trunks out of the room. "You were _playing_?"

"Yup!" Trunks beamed, "She ain't as good as Papa or Goten, but she's pretty good for a human. Maybe next time she might even beat me! But prob'ly not."

"How am I supposed to explain this to your mother, may I ask?" Entare said dryly, remembering Bulma's injunction to bring Trunks back unharmed. "I promised nothing would happen to you."

Trunks shrugged. "Mama's used to it. Papa and I get way bloodier than this at home."

"And what about your tooth?"

Again, Trunks brushed off the concern. "They're my baby teeth, right? Another big one will grow in soon."

Entare sighed. "Child, you certainly are strange. Clearly I have a lot to learn about dealing with you."

"Clearly," Trunks repeated mockingly, and Entare had to laugh. It wasn't difficult to tell that this boy was his mother's son; he possessed both her wit and her indifference to command.

Trunks glanced up at him, crystal eyes probing. "Hey, if you're worried Mama will get mad at you, I'll tell her it was my idea," he grinned. "_If _you gimme a piggyback ride."

"Fine," Entare started to crouch, but Trunks leapt onto his shoulders before he could complete the motion. "If your mother still tries to throw something at me, you won't get any dessert tonight."

Trunks just giggled and pulled Entare's hair, making him wince. "Hah. I'd like to see you try, Mister Dopey."

More than once, Entare mentally added up his monthly pay voucher, and decided it wasn't nearly enough money to deal with all of this. And that night, as he lay nursing the bump on his head (courtesy of a blow to the head, from a vase thrown by Bulma), Entare wished the brilliant programmer would just hurry up and get this over and done. The sooner he could get away from the woman and her child, the better. They were starting to get to him, and that wasn't good. The General must never find out that his subordinate was beginning to bond with his prisoners . . .

* * *

A/N: Well, there you have it. I can't give "Next Episode..." previews because I really don't know what's going to happen. Things are going to get kind of dodgy from here on, though ... Just stick with me and I promise I'll see you through — eventually! 


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